


The Kindness Of Strangers

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Loss, Canon and off-screen character deaths, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyday Espionage, Finstock is a Good Friend, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sex Toys, Violence, mild graphic descriptions, none of these off screen deaths are major characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Haven’t you ever wondered why you’ll admit things to strangers that you’d never tell a significant other? A parent? These strangers act as our confessional booths for the brief and fleeting moments we will ever want to tell and hear the truth." - Stiles Stilinski, Kind Stranger, one of the most proficient liars in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sugarcoated Lies (Gluten-free)

The overwhelming smell of sugar was tinted with sweat and frustration as a woman at the front of the line narrowed her eyes at a small brownie clutched between her index finger and thumb. 

“I don’t understand—everything here is vegan and gluten-free, how is it _not_ healthy?”

The harsh oven fans hid Isaac’s whispered “fuck off”, but Peter’s hearing left nothing to the imagination. Boyd’s shoulders were tight as he finished a ring of roses around a cake, Erica gnashed her teeth and glared holes into Peter’s back, which he habitually ignored, and… a _new_ face struggled to maintain cheery politeness. 

“Well, yes we do use limited ingredients and no animal by-products but we still use sugar and coconut oil—like _a lot_ of sugar. It’s still a dessert.” 

This woman, she looked like a _Helen_ , was just going through her routine. She took the time to curl her hair and pick out the shade of lipstick that matched her Gucci handbag. She went to Yoga Works and today was her cheat day so she came to the vegan and gluten-free bakery hoping it could be a guilt-free alternative. The twitch developing at the corner of her mouth would only worsen by the end of the day when she’d inevitably strike the fear of God into her underpaid assistant—but for that moment the building block of her rage machine started with the new boy and his perfect skin and smattering of moles. 

Peter would not fault Helen for adhering to her routine. Routines maintained order and sanity.

Peter snapped a quick picture of the cheery display case full of donuts and cupcakes and posted it on Instagram, filling his social media quota for the day. He’d finished his four-mile morning run and he needed to pick up cookies for his coworkers. He checked his watch. 

If Helen continued her fierce internal struggle much longer Peter wouldn’t be able to shower and he’d have to apply a spray of sharp cologne that never failed to make his nose buzz until he washed it off. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth, still dull and not fangs. His routine did not include ripping out Helen’s throat and letting her hot blood splatter across his face until her hand went limp. 

A low growl made Peter turn. Erica’s eyes flashed gold and if she continued down that route even Helen’s human ears would pick up the sounds over the ovens. Boyd and Isaac stiffened when Peter caught Erica’s eyes and he placed his index finger over his lips. Hush, princess, or you’ll scare the humans. 

“You know what, I’ll pass.” Helen spat out the words with unnecessary venom. “Just a tip, maybe don’t falsely advertise that this is vegan if it’s not healthy.”

Helen’s reign of terror at the bakery ended with her slamming out the door. 

The new boy swallowed a sigh, Peter tracked his Adam’s apple, and he smiled at Peter. 

“Good morning. Have you been to the bakery before?” 

“I have.” Peter leaned his hip against the counter, basking in Boyd’s sharp glare. “I just need a dozen chocolate-chip cookies.” 

“Great.” He moved in fast stuttered bursts, still learning where the boxes and bags were. He easily slipped the cookies into the bag, ringing Peter up on an iPad. “You’re all set—”

“You’re new.” 

The boy’s shoulders went slack and his smile vanished. He tilted his neck back with a dramatic groan. 

“Come on.” And _oh_ his voice dropped at least one octave. “I was doing well, I thought I got that for you pretty fast.”

“You did.” Peter’s smile widened. “I’m just here every day. It had nothing to do with your performance.” 

“Ah. Good to know.” His smile returned but it was crooked and flashed a hint of teeth. “Well, if I’m going to be seeing you, I’m Stiles.” 

He held out his hand and Peter took it firmly in his grasp. 

“Peter Hale.”

The three Betas bristled at the _Demented’s_ name, but Stiles didn’t bat an eye. He was human and decidedly out of the werewolf loop. Erica seethed to the point of Boyd gently touching the small of her back. Isaac’s eyes darted from Peter, Erica, and Stiles rapidly, his fists clenched tight. 

Stiles was none-the-wiser as they shook hands briskly.

“I’ll be seeing you. Enjoy the cookies, Peter.” 

Another customer came in and Stiles’s brown eyes focused on them, a cheery and higher-pitched “Good morning” floating past Peter in a singsong cadence. 

Before he turned to leave, Peter caught the eyes of the three bakery Betas, at their equally enraged and fearful gazes. He winked, if only to hear their heartbeats skyrocket, before walking through the door.

::::

Streaks of honey-gold sunlight splashed across Peter’s desk. Lydia was already in his office, as that had become a part of _their_ routine. Her heels were kicked to the corner and she wiggled her toes on the carpet. 

Peter tossed her the bag of cookies. 

“You either need to drive more aggressively or find a better route. Ever since your Instagram post I’ve been salivating.” Peter smirked and sat on the edge of his desk, unsurprised when Lydia’s eyebrows quirked up. “These… are all in tact.”

Lydia didn’t insult him by actually voicing the question. The bakery had been a part of Peter’s routine for two years ever since Lydia dragged him in while they’d still been figuring each other out as possible allies. The sweets were pleasant and the Betas only changed their polite demeanor when, a few months after Peter’s first visit, he forgot to carry cash and had to use his credit card. 

Peter Hale. Alpha. Lawyer. Murderer. Also the user of American Express. 

Erica took pride in breaking apart any baked goods Peter bought. 

All Peter would be left with were crumbs. He let the Betas have their moment of small justice. They were young pups. Peter had been young once. 

“There was a new employee. He put my order together.” 

Peter swiped a cookie for himself before surrendering the rest to Lydia. She was better at being naturally social, going around the office offering cookies with a wink and, “from Peter with love.” 

“Oh. I figured if they were going to hire someone else they’d be a werewolf.”

So did Peter. It just made Stiles all the more odd, but maybe they’d finally conceded that they needed an extra pair of hands. 

Lydia had a habit of saying, “Life is too short to not live in decadence.” Living in Los Angeles, Peter knew a thing or two about decadence, consumerism, and shameless hedonism. It was not a city for everyone. Most were tricked by the sunlight and palm trees and had a hard time figuring out the reality. Los Angeles was vicious and apathetic. 

Hell, that vain indifference was one of the main reasons Peter moved in. 

There was a brief knock on the door that preceded Lydia’s assistant Chris poking his head through the door. 

“Lydia, I just wanted you to know that you have a ten o’clock with Dwayne.” 

“Thank you. Want a cookie?” 

Peter sat in his chair and opened his emails to check on any fires he had to point out. He watched Lydia slip on her heels before she dictated to her assistant.

She was the youngest partner at their prestigious firm, bypassing the years of labored work as an associate and using her clients as leverage to be brought in right away as a partner. Peter vaguely acknowledged her ingenuity, a brief nod in the hall had been their only correspondence until four months into her employment. Peter opened the door to his office to see Lydia sitting on his desk, shoes off and hair down. 

Peter had slowly closed the door, not speaking as she held his gaze.

He knew she wasn’t a woman who fell into clichés so he waited patiently. 

“May I be frank with you, Peter?” 

Peter had been more of a husk back then, Lydia went as far as to describe him as _gaunt_. He swallowed. The only other person in the office was the receptionist. 

“By all means, Miss Martin.” 

“I thought wolves lived in Packs, but you’re not married and you live in an apartment off Larchmont. Is that healthy? Or am I mistaken, is the firm your Pack?” 

For a brief, white-hot moment of absolute terror, Peter thought an ambitious redhead had cornered him. 

Sure, it would be no problem to claw his way out, two bodies weren’t exactly hard to cut through. He’d have to move, and with a shudder Peter hoped wherever he ended up it wouldn’t be the Midwest. The moment ended. Peter took a breath and he examined his nails, at first human, and then he let his claws extend. 

“Miss Martin, I find you remarkably intelligent. I’m sure if you were to test your IQ you would fall into the genius ranks.” Her heartbeat fluttered, her eyes on his claws. “But you use labels to your advantage. _Pretty girl_ has never done you justice, but if people want to underestimate you it just works to your favor as they’re squashed beneath your heel. I might be a werewolf, but following expectations is something I will never care for.” 

The elevator dinged as more assistants arrived. The potential body count increased from two to six. 

Lydia angled her head down in a slight bow before she slipped her shoes back on.

“I understand.” She still didn’t leave, and more people kept coming with cheery greetings. She pushed her hair back, smiling slightly. “Let’s grab lunch. I’ll get Chris to figure out a time.” She had her hand on the door when she turned one last time, her eyes electric ice. “I have a good sense of potential. And I like to align myself with the best.” 

When Peter shook her hand he retracted his claws until all that was left were pristine manicured nails. 

“I look forward to it, Miss Martin.” 

Years passed and Peter still shared many lunches with Lydia. He bit into the cookie. Sugar and chocolate soothed over his tongue, his head clearing in an instant. 

Peter made an amendment to his routine. 

::::

Rainy days, truly _rainy_ days and not just bursts of mist, were rare in Los Angeles. The humidity, winds, and season had to be perfect, but it was worth the wait.

People shrieked, running for cover as the sky opened up and unleashed sheets of water. Peter tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he became soaked in a matter of minutes. Water helped Peter feel less blurred, every droplet pushed down the memories of deep burns and pus. 

On bad days when the moon’s pull was too much, Peter swore he could still feel sores lingering under his skin, sticky burns waiting to push through the surface. Water washed it away until Peter was left feeling fresh and as whole as he ever would be. 

His sneakers squeaked along the sidewalk. 

Like most people in Los Angeles, Peter moved in from elsewhere. He watched a select few smile despite their wet clothes and running makeup. They remembered rain and how frequent it would be in the rest of the world.

He pushed his way into the bakery, not surprised to find it crowded.

“The trick is to maintain your speed. Your instincts will tell you to go slow to get the motions down, but it will always come out wrong if you take your time.” Boyd’s voice was low, barely audible as he hunched over a cake, Stiles paying strict attention. “Keep the movement going. You try.”

Anxiety and low-grade panic made Peter cover his nose as Stiles took the piping bag. To Peter and Boyd’s surprise, Stiles’s hands didn’t shake despite his rapid-fire heartbeat. Stiles made a cluster or roses atop the cake. He withdrew his hands with a heavy exhale. 

“Fuck yes check that shit out—”

“Stiles,” Erica hissed, “language.” 

Stiles flushed pink up to his ears.

“Oh shit—fuck—I mean—” Erica pinched her nose as Boyd laughed, loud and deep. Peter’s skin tightened as Erica shoved Stiles and Boyd rubbed his palm over Stiles’s short hair. It had only been a month and the Bakery Betas loved him… wanted to claim him as theirs. Stiles wiped his cheek with a crooked grin, then caught Peter’s eye. “Oh, hey Peter!” Stiles walked forward, his back to Erica and Boyd. He missed their vanishing smiles and how they tensed. “Geez, you’re soaked. Did you forget your umbrella at home?”

He smelled like sugar, salt, and mint. His heartbeat slowed and he was flashing too much teeth with his unbridled grin. A tiny shiver of anticipation went up Peter’s spine as he grinned back, which prompted Stiles to lean closer while Erica and Boyd recoiled. 

“No. I simply enjoy the rain.”

“Good.” Stiles nudged Peter, a playful shove to his right shoulder. It was brief, but also the first time Stiles initiated physical contact. The press of his palm lasted a millisecond but it still felt significant, like he was testing the waters. “So what do you feel like getting today?”

Peter only started engaging with Stiles to get under the Betas’ skin. Stiles began as a pawn in his petty game with them… but he kept coming back and he paid less attention to the werewolves grinding their fangs and more to the human who seemed to save his genuine smiles for him. 

Erica rested her chin on Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but you’re done for the day. Clock out, dude.” 

Stiles’s smile faded.

“Oh, sorry, Peter—”

“Actually, that’s perfect.” The rain was already lessening, such joys in California were fleeting, and the customers began to leave. “If you’re free, would you like to grab lunch with me?”

This time all three heartbeats before him quickened. Stiles, to his credit, didn’t let his show. His smile didn’t waver for a moment even as his heart pounded hard against his ribcage. If Peter were human he’d be convinced of Stiles’s casual posture. 

“Sure. I just need to scrub some frosting off because right now I’m gross and sticky.”

He laughed, loud with his neck bared, before jogging to the back with a wave. He moved fast, but not fast enough for Peter to miss the roar of his blood rushing to his face and the smell of adrenalin humming in his veins. 

His mouth watered and he flashed a sly grin at the Betas. 

“Always lovely to see you.”

“Peter.” Erica spoke, her eyes golden. “He’s not some toy you can play with just to spite us. He’s a fucking human being. Leave him alone. Any impotent dick-swinging you want to do just do it with _us_.” 

Despite what the Bakery Betas believed, Peter admired them. Three Betas with no Alpha, and that was a choice they made. They made their decisions together as a Pack with no tyrant leader. It must be nice being a part of a Pack like that. Forged and made together by choice, not blood and family ties. 

“Please.” Peter rolled his eyes, letting them bleed red for a moment. Erica placed herself in front of Boyd. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

Stiles returned and his skin was scrubbed clean.

“All right. Let’s go, I’m _starving_.”

Peter’s knowledge on Stiles was limited to his five-day-a-week exposure, and most of those interactions lasted for ten minutes at most. 

Stiles wasn’t a vegan and had a soft spot for lamb-based dishes. He love dogs and was “aggressively indifferent” to mayonnaise as a condiment. He didn’t go to culinary school and had no interested in the entertainment field, making his move to Los Angeles puzzling. 

Peter didn’t take him far, just a few blocks down the street. Stiles picked out a café and soon they were tucked away in a corner. 

“You took my preferred seat.” Peter’s lips quirked up when Stiles raised his eyebrows, his cheeks stuffed with a delicious sandwich. Peter continued with a smirk. “Back to the wall with your eyes on all the exits.” 

To Peter’s surprise, Stiles blushed as he swallowed and scratched the tip of his nose. 

“Oh. Uh… you can have it if you want. Old habits, ever since the Borne Identity I always find a good seat.” It startled at laugh out of Peter and Stiles relaxed. “So you’re a lawyer with a sweet teeth. I’m a novice cake decorator. Let’s hope we can find some common ground in movies or music or else I’ll start babbling to fill the silence.”

The longer Peter spent studying Stiles the more questions he gathered. He was easy to talk to; he made several jokes and laughed through their punchlines. It was pleasant, but Peter wasn’t naïve enough to call it benign. 

Yes, Peter talked about _Parks and Recreation_ while Stiles insisted he try _You’re the Worst_ , but he had his back to the wall for a reason and not just because Matt Damon had a moderately interesting line in a spy film. 

Stiles ran out of steam after an hour and a half. It was the window Peter had been patiently waiting for. Stiles took a long sip of water as Peter nudged his foot. 

“Did you go to college?”

“I did. American University for two years, but it wasn’t for me.”

“College isn’t for everyone.” He watched Stiles bristle at the words he must have heard parroted at him countless times. Always repeated but never truly meant. The muscle in Stiles’s jaw clenched and Peter saw his eyes harden for an instant. He continued to speak in smooth, smoky tones. “People generally fear breaks in expectation. I think that’s a mistake. If everyone operated with in _expectation_ no progress would ever be made. Extraordinary things never happen when they’re _expected_.” 

Stiles’s lips curled. 

“Oh yeah? Got a lot of experience in being extraordinary, Mr. Lawyer?”

“A little.” Peter smiled to himself, thinking about the Hale family crest. The Hale name used to hold prestige and honor. All that had been burned away until all that was left was Peter and his useless nephew. “I was in a coma for ten years. I’m sure people expected me to die or simply waste away with my inheritance. Money is fine, but purpose is better. I pursued law and here I am.”

Earlier, Stiles had tested Peter’s physical boundaries. Now Peter was testing Stiles’s intimacy boundaries. 

Brown eyes widened. 

“Holy shit. That happened to you?” Peter nodded with a thin smile. “Holy _shit_. Wow.” Stiles squeezed Peter’s wrist quickly. “Is it weird to say I’m glad you’re here?” 

“Not at all. Unless you don’t mean it.”

“Oh, I mean it.”

Stiles yawned incessantly at the third hour. Peter made sure the stop in front of the window to the bakery as he hugged Stiles, covering any scent Erica or Boyd left behind. Stiles squeezed him back, his eyes twinkling. 

“We should do this again.”

“Absolutely.”

They exchanged numbers. Peter strolled home feeling smug, imagining Erica and Boyd trying to make up excuses to hug him, to cover up the Alpha’s scent. Peter chuckled as he unlocked his door, kicking off his shoes. He stilled, because his house was not empty.

Lydia stood in his living room. She was stiff, her bag clutched tightly in her hands. She opened it and held out a folder to him.

“I know you wouldn’t want to wait so I came over as soon as I could.” 

Peter opened the file. Glossy photos of Kate Argent stepping out of an airport terminal made Peter’s pleasant buzz solidify into cold rage. She smiled like she was on a catwalk. “Jackson just sent these to me this morning. I came by but you were gone.”

“I was… out.” The Bakery Betas witnessing him embrace a squishy human seemed like another lifetime. “When did this happen? Which airport?”

“About two hours ago in Newark. She rented a car and Jackson is still tailing her. So far it seems benign.

Lydia’s fists were clenched, her knuckles white. Peter was lucky to have her as an ally. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time he felt that same gratitude. He dropped the photos, his claws and fangs extending. He wanted to howl. He wanted to run. He wanted to track Kate down and break her apart piece by piece until she was nothing but viscera and clumps of hair. 

He growled, low in his throat.

“We have work to do.”

::::

According to the files Chris Argent no doubt had compiled on Stiles, the sequence of events that would eventually lead Stiles to Peter Hale would have started four years prior on a Monday morning in American University. Stiles knew that it was a fair assessment, but also inaccurate. 

He didn’t start lying in college.

Stiles lied when his parents lied. He lied when his mother insisted that “Everything is fine, sweetheart. Trust me, honey, you believe Mommy don’t you?” He nodded and that was the start. Because he was young but not stupid. He knew his parents stayed up late because he’d remain awake and hear them whispering in hushed, desperate tones that left them both in tears. 

No one _wanted_ to be told their mother was dying… but to deny it day after day was even worse. 

Stiles gave honesty one try when he was eight.

“Dad?” Stiles lingered in his father’s office doorway. It was late; Stiles would be in trouble for not being in bed. But he couldn’t sleep because his mother was dying and everyone at school kept whispering with pity and fear. “Dad what are we gonna do?” Stiles couldn’t sleep because who would make him lunches? Who would meet him at the bus stop? Who would go over his spelling homework? “What are we going to do when Mom dies—?”

The sound of glass shattering made Stiles leap back. There was a smell with it, the kind that stung his noise. _Bourbon,_ his brain supplied, _Mom said it’s called bourbon._

“Don’t you _ever_ say that again, Stiles. Do you understand me?”

_When people are scared they sometimes say mean things._ Stiles knew this. His mother told him, soothed him more than once with those words. His dad was scared, and so was Stiles. 

“I understand. I’m s-sorry.”

A week later Stiles had no mother and no answers. At the graveyard his father promised to be there for him. Stiles believed him, not because of the words, but of guilt and duty. Stiles’s story started when his dad preferred lies to the truth. 

_“Stiles…”_

His chest tightened at Scott’s disappointed tone, no longer confused, now just defeated. He was turning twenty-one and instead of having a party he was writing three papers while Skyping with his best friend. Being _too damn smart for your own good_ meant being in an accelerated college program, which meant more papers, classes, and no socializing. The full scholarship made up for it. 

Stiles let the neon blue highlighter fall from his mouth.

“What’s up, Scott?”

He’d been expecting a “Happy birthday, bro!” with a ton of emojis followed by Scott’s latest vet stories involving puppies and kittens. Disapproving and hesitant was his father’s routine, not Scott’s. 

_“I got your text about what you want to do as a thesis. Is that really what you think? That people want to be lied to?”_

Stiles blinked. 

“Well… yeah. I thought my statement made it clear. It didn’t come off as vague did it? It will never pass review if—”

_“No that’s not the problem, it’s just…”_

Even through Skype’s shitty video connection Stiles saw his worst nightmare unfolding. His only true confidante was pulling away. Shadows fell against Scott’s face and his best friend changed. It only took a minute for them to start yelling, then screaming. Stiles lost his voice, then closed out of Skype with a “don’t fucking talk to me,” still ringing off the walls. It was 2012 and Stiles was livid. His study group got him a few bottles of bourbon as a joke. They knew he wasn’t into alcohol. He saw what it did to his father, how long it took him to claw out from under its influence. 

_Fuck him_. Stiles grabbed the first bottle and opened it, his stomach roiling at the smell. 

In retrospect getting black out drunk to the point of near alcohol poisoning was not Stiles’s smartest moment. 

Electronic chirps from his phone made Stiles come to at one in the afternoon the next day. He had four missed calls from a restricted number and a text message from his father, a brief but unsurprising _Happy birthday, kiddo. Was on the late shift. Call today?_ He missed eight alarms and three classes.

“Fuck.” Stiles groaned from the floor. He sat up and after he was done squinting at his phone he saw the email notifications refresh. His phone numbed his hands with the vibrations of one hundred new emails. “ _Fuck_.” 

Stiles scrambled to his desk, ignoring how the bright sun cut against his eyes like hot glass. He opened his laptop and checked his school email, this throat sticky and dry. All of his emails had the subject line “ _Re: Fukcing Bulshit._ ” Stiles scrolled down, hoping that it was some meme sent to several departments. He didn’t find the original email in his inbox.

Stiles rubbed his temples. God, why did people drink if it made them feel like this? 

He checked his sent folder and his stomach felt like lead. One sent item yesterday at 3:45 in the morning. From S. Stilinski. To: NeuroAll, PsychAll, PolySciAll. Subject: Fukcing Bulshit. 

As he opened it he had the fleeting thought of, at least I didn’t send it to Dad.

There was no text in the body of the email, only a single attachment titled Thesis.doc. 

His world was swimming in tears and nausea as he opened it. Sixty pages of text stared back at him, full of typos, obscenities, and no citations but—but even in his enraged, drunken state—it was one _hell_ of a thesis. About addiction to lying, about the neuroscience behind more subtle lies used in advertising and how it bled into everyday life. 

_We’re fed ads over our whole fucking lives, not just from commercials, but movies, stories, your fucking parents telling you sugarcoated stories of how they met—it’s all an ad for the branding that we assign ourselves. Clothes are made to fit the brands—nuclear family, heterosexual, upper-class—it’s all branding—_

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, his breaths coming in stuttered bursts. He scrolled down.

_You ever notice how when someone asks how you’re doing the answer his always good? Always. Even if it’s shit, because God forbid the pattern of benign happiness is fucking broken. We want to be lied to. By our parents, our government. Those we **say** are the closest especially. Haven’t you ever wondered why you’ll admit things to strangers that you’d never tell a significant other? A parent? These strangers act as our confessional booths for the brief and fleeting moments we will ever want to tell and hear the truth—_

Stiles had to stop reading because he was throwing up into his wastebasket. 

He felt rubbed raw, his stomach so knotted and tight he wondered if he was dying. His lower lip trembled and he sobbed so hard he was thrown back to those long, lonely nights as a child awake in the dark. He heaved until there was nothing left. 

A few feet away, his phone rang. 

Stiles sniffed, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He reached for it. It was from a restricted number. Stiles swiped his fingers across the screen and pressed his phone to his ear. 

“Hello?”

He barely sounded human; his voice was so roughened from vomit and tears. 

_“Good afternoon. Is this Stiles Stilinski?”_

Whoever was calling him was an older man. He had the kind of voice that made Stiles sit up straight despite how it made the room spin.

“Yes. Uh, this is Stiles speaking.”

Stiles hiccupped through the words. He felt numb as the man said that he was the Dean and that Stiles was under Academic and Disciplinary review—that the Dean and Academic Board wanted to speak with Stiles. He was expected at the Dean’s office in a half hour. 

It wasn’t a request. 

Two hours later Stiles had taken a shower. _“Masturbatory whining,” “Unprofessional at best, blindingly embarrassing at worst,”_ and _“We’ll take a month on this review, Stiles. We will be thorough in evaluating whether or not you are deserving of your prestigious scholarship as well as enrollment at this university,”_ echoed in his ears. 

He took a walk. He ignored his exploding inbox. Last time he checked it had reached up to four hundred new emails. Another missed call from Dad—

“Oh God.” Someone bumped into him, and then fell to the ground. Stiles blinked, then immediately dropped to his knees. A young woman in a mauve skirt and white blouse scrambled to scoop up everything that had spilled out of her bag. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going—”

“It’s my fault. I… I should have been paying more attention. Here.” He helped her up and got her bag back together. “Can I… I feel like shit. I was going to get coffee. I’ll treat you.” Stiles saw her frown, just for a moment, but he caught the micro-expression. “Honestly, I feel bad for knocking you over. It’s just coffee, I promise.” 

Her name was Allison and she was visiting DC with her dad. She was lactose-intolerant and got Stiles to try a soy-milk latte. On a normal day Stiles would have been flustered by her beauty and smile, but he was so numb she could have kissed him and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Here.” She passed him a cup of ginger tea. What started as an apology coffee turned into hours of conversation. “Your voice is shot. Are you getting sick?” 

“No, just really hung over.” Stiles rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a really weird day. You ever have those? Where it feels like all the ingredients for a massive fuck up have been getting lined up for this one really shitty day?”

Allison laughed but it stung the edges of her lips.

“Oh yeah. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

Another hour passed. She talked about her mother the powerhouse. She’d been a fierce warrior who was stabbed by some piece of shit mugger. Her father took self-defense very seriously. The year her mother died had been rough. 

“It’s just… I had that feeling of _what do we do now_ , you know?”

Stiles knew. So he told her about his mother. His father. Scott. How Beacon Hills felt more and more like a prison every time he went back. Her phone chimed as the sun began to set. 

“Oh shit—I got to meet my dad—”

“No worries. Thanks for,” Stiles waved his hand, “taking the time.”

They hugged. Stiles thought she was nice and hoped she had a lovely time with her father. 

Stiles got pizza in order to cut through the lingering alcohol with grease. It was dark by the time he made it back to his apartment. A man in a nice suit was waiting in the lobby of his building. 

He had salt and pepper hair and stern blue eyes. He glanced up as soon as Stiles walked in like he recognized him… or had been waiting for him. 

“Stiles? Stiles Stilinski?” Stiles stayed by the door, reaching for his pepper spray and wondering how fast he could run while hung over. “Your paper was passed along to me.”

“Which paper?”

Stiles watched the man stay right where he was, not taking a step forward or backwards. His posture was so rigid Stiles wondered if he’d served in the military. 

“Your thesis.” 

Stiles felt his ears get hot. He clenched his fists.

“What, you want an apology or a front row seat to a personification of a fucking disaster?” 

“Neither.” The guy still hadn’t moved. “Your statement about being truthful with strangers is why it was given to me.” There was movement from the stairwell. Allison turned the corner and Stiles felt his teeth creak he was clenching his jaw so tightly. He could see the resemblance of father and daughter. Allison’s dad tossed Stiles a government ID. “I have an offer for you.”

_Chris Argent_ was printed neatly above his face. The stamp of _Department of Defense_ made Stiles shudder. Below it, in smaller letters was _The Kindness of Strangers_. 

“All right.” Stiles clutched the ID tight in his hand. His phone buzzed. He ignored it. “Let’s hear it.”


	2. Lies of Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, dear. The Tribunal and I still stand by our initial judgment.” Derek pulled away from her grip, not caring that it was extremely disrespectful. Miriam’s grey eyebrows quirked upwards. “Derek, what’s done is done. What happened to you and your Pack was utterly tragic and I grieve with you.”

Wind chimes and bits of sea glass marked the border of the MacGuillis Pack’s immense territory. Their whimsical wards gave off a fairytale feel despite the fact that the MacGuillis name was older than America itself. Derek Hale felt clumsy in their presence. Watching the children play, how the families lived in several big houses across the estate… it made him burn with shame.

“Derek.” Miriam’s voice was like eroded rock, weathered but beautiful. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.” She took his large hands into her own. Even though her fingers could barely wrap around Derek’s palms he’d never mistake her age for fragility. Fierce and ancient Alpha blood ran through her veins. “You’ve certainly grown into a fine young wolf.”

Her periwinkle eyes twinkled as she released him. Derek hated that the air against his skin was a relief. 

“Thank you, Alpha MacGuillis.”

“Please, dear boy, call me Miriam.” 

The MacGuillis Pack’s main territory was in Bainbridge Island, Washington. The smell of salt in the air was new and pleasant as they walked over rolling hills and through tall trees to get to the cliffs. A table was out and set for them. 

Derek felt like a child as he sat on the small stool, his knees bumping the bottom of the table. 

He’d first met Miriam when he was fifteen. She’d stood tall and had less silver in her hair. She, along with six other Alphas that belonged to the Tribunal, had watched him cry with ugly, shuddering sobs as he begged. 

_“Please. He killed our entire family in one night, he watched them burn, our Pack— he wanted to be Alpha and he—”_

_“Derek Hale, please take a moment to get a hold of yourself.”_

Her voice was unforgiving. He hated her so much in that moment on the ground with his heart gutted out of him, his Pack still in cinders. Laura stood strong next to him, shouldering her grief with poise, saying the words Derek couldn’t. 

_“It’s too convenient that our Uncle… our Uncle Peter just happened to fly in on the day of the fire that also coincided with the Hale Pack reunion. Even though he was our mother’s Second they argued constantly. He’d operate outside of her orders. He murdered our entire Pack. Please,”_ Laura’s voice finally wavered, _“let us do what’s right.”_

Peter had been in a coma, unable to speak for himself. Laura was sure his injury was by design, that he was faking unconsciousness to gain pity from the Tribunal… and it succeeded. They denied the request for an in-Pack execution. 

_“Talia would not have wanted you to commit murder,”_ Miriam had said. 

Ten years passed, Peter woke up, and only a few hours later Laura was dead. This time Derek merely trembled with rage before the Tribunal as his uncle stood serenely with newly manicured fingers. He was helpless, his uncle explaining how his “darling niece” had tried to murder him and that her death was merely out of self-defense. 

_“Becoming Alpha,”_ Peter bemoaned with mocking distress, _“was merely a side effect of my reflex to fight for my life.”_

Miriam poured tea two years later and didn’t notice or didn’t care that Derek had to hunch over just to take the cup into his hands. 

“I heard that you joined the military. How did that treat you?”

“Very well, ma’am.”

Miriam laughed, a high-pitched giggle that made Derek grind his teeth. 

“Glad to hear it. I’ve heard that the military structure is similar to being in a Pack. I’m sure that helped you.” 

It hadn’t. 

Strong winds blew in from the sea and Derek couldn’t savor it, couldn’t let it cleanse him. He remained silent, sipping his tea as Miriam spoke in benign pleasantries, of the weather, of what her Betas were experimenting with in the kitchen, information that didn’t interest Derek in the least. 

“Derek, dear, you know why I summoned you here, don’t you?”

He bristled at her upward inflection, at her gentle, mocking touch to his wrist. He wanted to tear his arm away, he wanted to leave, fly back to DC, but he couldn’t. 

“My appeal.”

The sentence of Peter’s innocence… Derek wanted it revoked. Sure, he knew most werewolves were aware of the murky circumstances of nearly all of the Hales dying, and that Peter killed Laura and obtained her Alpha status. He was a pariah among his own kind but that wasn’t enough. 

“Yes, dear. The Tribunal and I still stand by our initial judgment.” Derek pulled away from her grip, not caring that it was extremely disrespectful. Miriam’s grey eyebrows quirked upwards. “Derek, what’s done is done. What happened to you and your Pack was utterly tragic and I grieve with you.”

_Liar_ , Derek thought with such viciousness he had to bite his tongue to keep the words back. He stood, knocking the table and spilling the tea and cups. 

“Thank you for reviewing the case, Alpha MacGuillis.”

Derek had to turn away before he said or did anything irreversible. He stalked past the orchards, the flowerbeds, and he tried to ignore the stares and whispers that followed him.   
_That’s Derek Hale. Survivor. Loner. The end of a broken bloodline._

Laura had been fierce before Peter took her life away with his own claws. She’d kept her arms around Derek, heart hammering in her chest because it was _just the two of them_. They were all that was left of the Hale name.

_“We’ll do whatever it takes, Der. Fuck those old dogs, okay? We’ll get our name back, I promise.”_

Derek had tried to do it the proper way, through the old laws and respecting the Tribunal… and all it got him was a dead sister and his uncle taking half of the insurance payout. Derek boarded the plane to DC with grim determination. Whatever it takes…

He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and joined the FBI.

::::

“Wow. _Wow_. And I mean _wow_ the way infomercials use it, with bright colors and fanfare because— _wow_.” Bobby Finstock was a colorful Special Agent to say the least.. “If I stick with you I’m sure they’ll make me the Director in no time. No offense. I just have more charisma than you.” 

“You’ve sure got something, Finstock.”

Finstock laughed, loud enough to make nearby pigeons fly away.

“Come on.” Finstock slapped Derek’s shoulder. “I need to eat something greasy and you need to tell me what’s on your mind.” Derek flinched, his mouth slack. Finstock rolled his eyes. “I know you just a little. You’re getting all squirmy and you look more constipated than usual.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, pal.” 

Finstock talked when Derek didn’t want to, and since Derek was a “Fucking humorless monk,” as Finstock put it, he talked _a lot_. Derek did enjoy their silence, when it was just the two of them shoved in the corner of a diner their colleagues would turn their noses at. Those were the days that Derek came close to feeling whole. 

Finstock gestured wildly to their unimpressed waitress, “Burnt, I mean burnt-witches-at-the-stake- _burnt_ , that’s how I like it,” while Derek drank his black coffee. 

If the FBI had black sheep Finstock and Derek were it. Derek didn’t mind, he didn’t care much for petty politics, and Finstock was similar in that regard. 

“Okay. Lay it on me.” Finstock shook out his face dramatically like a wet dog. “I’m ready.”

The first thing Derek did once he got his badge was find Peter. His uncle had become a lawyer and was living it up in Los Angeles. None of Derek’s assignments ever sent him to that city, but even if they had what could he have done? How would he get close?

And… Derek needed to be absolutely _certain_. 

He caught a glance of Chris Argent’s name by chance and it thrilled and terrified him.

Derek swallowed lukewarm coffee. 

“Do you know Chris Argent? He’s in DOD.” 

Finstock’s face went through a fascinating series of spasms and Derek grabbed Finstock’s mug before it could hit the ground. Once Finstock finished he snatched his cup out of Derek’s hands. He narrowed his eyes. 

“You’re a god damn Spiderman.” He cleared his throat, running his fingers through his already unruly hair. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Even met him a couple of times at the shitty luncheons Director Crawford throws.” Finstock shrugged. “Straight-laced military man with a mile long pole up his ass, but you could say that about anyone here.” Their waitress came with eggs for Derek and a charred-beyond-belief burger for Finstock. “What do you want with him?”

Derek had the urge to squirm under Finstock’s intense, most would say manic, gaze. 

“Just wanted to meet with him.”

The low hum of other conversations washed over them, bits of “yes, thank you,” and “more coffee, please,” filled the tense silence. Finstock burned holes into Derek’s eyes until he finally blinked with a dramatic exhale. 

“It’s not that I don’t,” Finstock’s mouth twisted violently like he swallowed an entire lemon, “ _like_ you—but Argent is a bit of a maverick. He’s got a few very powerful friends to make up for the massive amount of people he’s pissed off. He’s not a friendly guy. Can’t take a joke, believe me, I’ve tried.” Derek snorted. Finstock flipped him off, but the corner of his lips turned up and his eyes shined the way they would whenever he could make Derek laugh. “What I’m saying is… I’m not going to stick my hand out for Chris Argent to bite off because you want to do some social studies project.”

For several minutes there was only the sound of silverware clinking against plates. Derek mulled it over, his fists clenched tight under the table. 

He’d been alone for so long that talking became unimportant. Silence didn’t make him uncomfortable and filling the air with pointless pleasantries was even worse. Derek liked that Finstock didn’t mind when Derek would forget that yes, he had a career now and looking and acting normal would benefit all parties. 

Finstock never seemed to stop talking but not because he feared silence. He used his noise as an announcement and sometimes to disguise what he was truly capable of. Most agents smirked at Finstock’s name because all they’d think of was the crazy guy who seemed to have a random yet legendary loathing for one poor analyst named Greenberg. 

They forgot that he had a medal of honor on his mantle and the highest success rate amongst his peers. Derek had never checked to see what Finstock’s IQ was, but he was sure it was close to 145. It was why Derek stuck close to him and listened attentively to what Finstock had to say.

Still, having a genius stare him down was unnerving. 

Derek swallowed, forcing his shoulders to relax one centimeter at a time.

Finstock never asked why Derek rarely took vacations or why he never sent out for flowers on Mother’s Day. Derek would have also avoided his own birthday but Finstock never failed to track him down and give him an obnoxious card. Last year he’d filled the envelope with glitter. Derek still couldn’t wear those pants. 

Derek returned the favor of not asking questions. When he’d sped all his holidays at Finstock’s house Derek never asked, “so where’s your family?”

He knew if he decided to drop the subject Finstock would lay it to rest and never speak of it again. Derek would also be right back where he started.

“It’s… personal.” Derek swallowed, his throat desert-dry. “I don’t want to talk about it in a diner.”

“Okay.” Finstock clapped his hands together. “Meet at my place in an hour? I’ll set up your—the guest bedroom.”

Derek nodded and they both threw cash down on the table before moving in synch to the door.

The sunlight felt surreal, like an over-exposed photograph that made facial features ghostly pale. He went to his apartment and packed a light backpack. He wasn’t going to tell Finstock the whole truth. If he did, at best he’d be ordered to undertake a psych evaluation and at worst he’d be on an operating table with humans cutting him to pieces to figure out just what held a werewolf together. 

Finstock lived in a nice brick house with trees lining the street; their thick leaves dampening all sounds and light. Derek wiped his two feet on the mat that said “Fuck Off” in bright pink letters. 

He didn’t have to knock. Finstock opened the door with a grimace. 

“Come on in. You’ve got to hear this Tom Waits on vinyl I just got. Un-fucking-real.”

Derek hoped he didn’t look as clammy and pale as he felt. 

“Great. Can’t wait.”

Finstock wasn’t wearing shoes. He wiggled his toes in his Spongebob socks. Derek took off his shoes in the foyer before following Finstock to the living room. Finstock dropped the needle onto the record. A gravel-cut deep voice filled the room. 

“Just bask in the Waits.”

Finstock winked and moved to the hallway. He pulled back a small part of the rug that exposed a doorway. Derek had only seen it a few times. His heartbeat quickened as he stepped down the narrow stairs, Finstock grunting behind him. He closed the door to the soundproof basement. 

It was a small basement, only created for the purpose of paranoid privacy.

“All right.” Finstock rubbed his hands together and tossed Derek a bottle of water. “We’ve got sixty-seven minutes.” 

Derek had tried the old way, the respected way with the Tribunal. Even though he’d keep werewolves a secret, he was still bringing in an outsider. Discovery of his actions would leave Derek exiled as a traitor. _Whatever it takes._ Laura’s voice haunted him. _Whatever it takes._

Derek took a deep breath and started at the beginning. 

::::

Physical contact was, in general, very important to a werewolf’s everyday life. It reaffirmed bonds, provided warmth, and was mostly a comfort to share with one’s Pack. Derek’s stomach was in knots as he struggled to navigate the crowded mall. Every time a person brushed past like a knife through Derek’s stomach. 

Derek shoved his way to a wall, taking deep breaths before moving forward. 

_“Look, Derek, I’ll put out feelers, but Chris Argent came from a family of spooks. When I looked into his department all that came up was his name. That could mean a few things. One: he’s a nutcase and someone just gave him a title and an office to fuck off with. Two: whatever he’s doing is an internal investigations unit, which makes trying to get a hold of him even trickier. Or three… he’s doing things above internal investigations, things that whoever he’s got working for him would be in danger if their names got out. So… no promises… but I’ll do my best.”_

That had been six long months ago. 

Derek darted into a brightly lit sock store. The least he could do was get Finstock some obnoxious shocks for Christmas. He ignored a few curious stares from children and mothers as he lumbered down the aisles. 

_“If it were up to me he’d be talking to you right now. But I’m not Director yet. He’ll find you if he’s interested.”_

Derek constantly waited for Argent to turn the corner, to find him, sit him down, and ask, “What the hell does a werewolf want with a hunter?” He never came and Derek tried to hide the disappointment that grew in him day after day.

He stared at Spongebob socks.

“Excuse me.” A voice beside him made Derek flinch and move to the side. A thin young man slipped past him only to crouch in front of the Mr. Krabs socks Derek had been eyeing. The young man had his tongue stuck out between his teeth, squeezing the material between his thumb and index finger, then moved onto Patrick Starr. He paused, then blinked up at Derek. “Did you call dibs on these or something?”

“No.” Derek sighed. Finstock would probably want something different than just more of the same Spongebob socks. “No…”

The young man hummed before grabbing the Mr. Krabs socks. 

“Sounds like you need some help.” He straightened his legs and brushed at the front of his sweater. “I dress people for a living. Maybe I can give you a few tips.” 

“You dress people in Mr. Krabs socks?”

The young man laughed. 

“I do if they’re children who already have every other pair of Spongebob socks imaginable.” He grinned, rocking on the balls of his feet. “I don’t want to brag, but I’m offering you something I usually charge _a lot_ of money for. You’re just lucky my boss and kids decided to visit Grandpa in DC this year or else I’d be in my considerably less crowded apartment in New York.”

He was young but his heartbeat hadn’t so much as wavered during his little speech. 

“I meant no offense. Sure,” Derek shrugged. “If you don’t mind.” 

The stylist waved away Derek’s piss-poor apology. 

“People see my baby face and still give me the kid’s menu.” He leaned in closer to Derek and held his hand up and whispered behind it theatrically. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m turning thirty-nine this year.” Derek’s face dropped because no way—but again, the man wasn’t lying. “I know, I’m cursed with youthful genes. Anyway,” he inhaled sharply like he was steering himself back onto the original subject. “Tell me about who you’re buying for.” 

“My boss.” Derek shoved his hands into his pockets, the tips of his ears prickling hot. “He’s a bit… eccentric. The last time I was over his house he wore Spongebob socks so…” 

He trailed off because his throat tightened. The man didn’t seem to mind. 

“All right. Over forty, likes Spongebob—is he a family man? Blended situation? Bachelor?” 

“Bachelor.”

“Okay… is he well liked at work or,” Derek snorted and the man smiled. “Not a popular guy, got it.”

He tapped his fingers against his chin and bobbed his head. Derek felt like he was watching a dancer as the man dashed through the aisles with determined grace. Derek followed, bumping into various stands and hangers, but he preferred that to touching people. 

“All right. I’ve got five for you to pick from.” He held out his right arm like a butler in an old movie. He had his five choices laid out on his arm like towels. “Go with your gut instinct, just pick—”

Derek’s hand shot out and he grabbed a thicker pair, with a cartoon boy and what looked to be his unibrow sporting grandfather burping above him. 

“This is the one.” 

The grandpa’s wild hair reminded him of Finstock. The man smiled, putting the others back on hooks. 

“Rick and Morty. Strong choice.” They both paid and the man grimaced at the crowded corridors waiting for them. “Well, if this is you’re only stop you’re lucky. I’ve got so many damn things to buy.”

“I’m sorry.” 

The man laughed, his brown eyes wrinkling at the corners. 

“Yeah, me too, buddy.” He smiled, crooked and quick. Derek had a hard time believing that the man was almost forty. “I’d shake your hand but I’m getting over a mean head cold. Wouldn’t want to ruin your holiday. I’m Stiles.”

Derek relaxed, grateful that he wouldn’t have to shake Stiles’s hand. 

“Derek. Have a nice holiday.” 

Stiles beamed and effortlessly slipped between people in a mad rush for the next sale. 

“You as well!” 

By the time Derek freed himself of the crowds he forgot what Stiles’s face looked like, and once he was home and had written out Finstock’s card, he’d forgotten his name. 

::::

“I can’t believe Eckheart gave you sensual massage oil. She was flashing some serious fuck-me eyes at you.” Finstock almost choked on a mouthful of lo mein, he was laughing so hard. “In all seriousness, you should file for sexual harassment.”

Derek rolled his eyes, gently sliding a glass of water closer to Finstock. 

“I’ll just re-gift it next year.” 

For some reason that only made Finstock laugh harder. Strange, how the sight of his partner doubled over in hysterics made warmth bloom in Derek’s cheeks. It was Christmas Eve and they upheld their tradition of Chinese take-out with promise of a home-cooked breakfast feast the next morning. 

The first year Finstock had invited Derek over for Christmas he thought it had been out of pity and curiosity. But it didn’t feel that way when Finstock would roll out his garish plastic white tree and carelessly lob fistfuls of tinsel at it. 

Derek washed the dishes and when he walked into the living room Finstock pushed a box into his damp hands. 

“You’ve been promoted, Agent. You get first throw.” He told himself that his throat wasn’t tight and that his vision was only a little off-focus because of the dim lighting. Derek grabbed a fistful of tinsel and flung it at the tree. “Yeah! That’s it!” 

Finstock insisted that Derek open his gift first. It was a Julia Child cookbook. Derek raised an eyebrow as Finstock gestured wildly at the book. 

“Look, the lack of body fat on you is disturbing. And I’m starting to get the feeling that the only time you eat a home-cooked meal is when I cook for you. So. Here you go.” 

“Thank you.” Derek knew Finstock wouldn’t fully grasp just how much it meant to Derek to even have a place to be during the holiday. “I, uh, I got you something too.” 

Neither of them commented on Derek’s scratchy voice as he handed him a vastly inadequate gift to Finstock. He yanked out the tissue paper and tossed it over his shoulder like it personally insulted him. He paused, his eyes wide and his entire body going still. 

It was the quietest Derek had ever seen him. 

Before he could panic Finstock screeched. 

“You got me Rick and Morty socks!” 

“The hair reminded me of you.”

Finstock laughed as his put them on.

Eventually they crashed on the couch and watched _Independence Day_ , Finstock mouthing along to all the lines. Next came _Gremlins,_ then _Die Hard._

The only light came from the television. Derek muted it as Finstock snored next to him. 

In the quiet moments of Derek’s life he often wondered if he’d ever have a Pack again… if that was something he even wanted. He had memories of Christmases with his family, of how the whole house was filled with laughter and warmth. It felt like he was watching a distorted movie, like he was seeing something dated and unreal. 

Finstock’s house was quiet. It didn’t seem like a lonely place, just selectively in solitude. 

“Come on.” Derek gently squeezed Finstock’s shoulder. “Go sleep in a bed or your neck will bother you tomorrow.”

“No.” Finstock didn’t open his eyes, nuzzling his face against a cushion. “Unless you carry me I’m not— _holy shit_!” Derek lifted Finstock effortlessly; his arms sliding under his knees and back as he walked to the stairs. “What are you? Is this why people won’t shut up about Crossfit?” 

It didn’t hurt, touching Finstock, like it did with most people. Derek tried not to think about it as he tucked Finstock in. Finstock went to sleep with a grumbled, “I guess I should start taking vitamins.” Derek had a will and in it he left everything to Finstock, along with a letter that took him weeks to write about how he made Derek feel like he had a home. 

“Hey.” Finstock grabbed Derek’s ratty academy shirt. “I’m sorry about Argent.” He yawned, slurring his words. “Fuck ‘im. I’ll figure something, all right? Promise.” 

Within the next breath he was back to snoring. Derek went to the guest bedroom and sank into the sheets, letting the feeling of contentment pull him to sleep. 

Five minutes passed when his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. Derek sat up, groggy from being jerked from sleep so soon. He squinted at the bright screen, at the restricted number calling him. He swiped his finger across the screen and bright his phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” There was only silence on the other line. Derek strained his ears and he could hear calm, even breathing. “This is Derek Hale speaking.”

_“Good evening, Agent Hale. This is Chris Argent.”_ Derek’s mouth went dry and his heart hammered in his chest. He felt numb in the darkness of Finstock’s spare bedroom. _“It has come to my attention that you would like to meet with me.”_

“That’s correct, sir.”

Chris said nothing of the implication of a werewolf seeking out a hunter, and Derek knew he wouldn’t over the phone. Both of their names had long lines of history behind them. The Argent name, as far as Derek knew, was still going strong. Derek was the last of the Hales as far as he was concerned. 

_“Are you free for a meeting next Wednesday at three?”_

“Yes.” Derek had no idea if he was free at all but he’d clear any conflicting obligations. “I can do that.”

_“Great. I’ll send you the directions to my office.”_

“Okay, my email is—”

_“I already have it, Agent Hale. Happy holidays.”_

The line clicked and Derek’s phone went dark. His chest was tight and his mouth tasted sour. _Whatever it takes._

His phone pinged. He had one new email. 

::::

It was the start of 2015 and Derek checked his tie one last time before he buttoned up his jacket and straightened his shoulders. The lobby was all black granite and stainless steel, and everyone was perfectly coiffed and polite. Derek was directed to an elevator that he took to the ninth floor. 

He made it to the third office where a plague beside the door read: KOS.

When he opened the door no one was there to greet him. No receptionist, not even a welcome sign or motivational poster. What would have served as a reception area was only plush carpeting that ended where the line of offices started. The hallway and offices had tile flooring. 

Derek could hear three other heartbeats beside his own. He ventured cautiously forward. The offices were sparsely furnished with cheap desks and shelves, some boxes still unpacked. A throat cleared and Derek turned.

“I’m glad you were able to find the office easily.” 

Chris Argent didn’t smile or offer his hand to shake. Derek knew two others were nearby but they didn’t come forward. They were most likely in the offices behind Chris. 

“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

Derek spit out the stilted words, flustered for not knowing to broach the subject. Chris looked like an Argent, rigid posture and steely eyes that cut down to the bone. 

“I’m guessing that whatever you want to talk about is personal.”

“Yes.” Derek flushed. He felt sick. “But it’s nothing between you and I—it’s a favor.” Chris hummed, his eyes narrowing, and this was Derek’s one shot. “Please, I’ve tried going through my people, but they wouldn’t—”

Chris held up his hand and Derek snapped his jaw shut. Chris gestured for Derek to follow him to the farthest office. He opened the door to reveal a long table with two chairs. Derek’s stomach twisted because it looked like an interrogation room. 

“Before I hear you out I’d like you to do a favor for me.” Derek’s throat clicked when he swallowed. Chris’s expression softened slightly. “It will be painless, I promise. I’m going to send someone in and I just need to know if you can hear or smell them lying, if anything with their heartbeat or body chemicals seem off to you.” He was telling the truth and Derek remained silent, not moving away from the door. “Will you do that for me? If you do, I promise to listen to what you have to say.”

Derek clenched his jaw.

“Okay.” 

He took a seat and waited as Chris left him. He rolled his shoulders, rubbing at the muscles in his neck. His phone pinged with a new text from Finstock. Before Derek could read it the door opened and… 

Derek bristled as Stiles closed the door behind him with a win. There were no windows to the hall and Derek pushed his chair back as Stiles sat down. 

“What is this?” 

Stiles had a packet of papers in his hands, annoyingly nonplussed. 

“Just a test.” He winked again and Derek wanted to rip his eyes out. “It will be quick, I promise.” He cleared his throat. “I work in a pet store. If you ever have any questions about birds just let me know.” 

He never broke eye contact and his heartbeat and scent never changed. Derek blinked.

“What’s… going on?”

“I’m a high school drop out. I have seven sisters named after Russian poets.” 

He had to get out. Everything tasted like copper and salt. Derek had his back to the wall and he was dizzy. He wished he’d never come to Chris’s office, he wished he never asked Finstock for help. 

“Please… let me go…” 

Stiles didn’t hear his wheezed plea. He shuffled through his papers. 

“Okay. Last one. My dad is a famous writer and it left me jaded to books, so to spite him I drew comics. Vertigo just picked up my—”

“ _Stop it!_ ”

Derek couldn’t breathe. His skin was sticky and too tight as he fell to the floor. His vision tunneled and Stiles got out of his chair, his whole body telling Derek’s senses that he was telling the truth even though he _wasn’t._

“Shit. Hey.” Stiles crouched in front of Derek, his brows knit with concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—deep breaths okay?” He reached for Derek’s clenched fists. The door opened behind him and Chris came in, ashen under his neatly trimmed beard. “Breathe with me, buddy, in for four, out for four—”

His fingers bumped Derek’s skin and he _roared_ , his face shifting and his fangs dropping.

Stiles’s heartbeat finally spiked as he screamed. 

::::

Stiles stretched and went through his breathing exercises one by one. Palm trees swayed in the witching hour wind and he closed his eyes. He had on his bakery uniform, ready for his first day. He heard the van’s door open. A pair of feet dropped to the sidewalk and he turned. He smirked as Allison failed to swallow a yawn. 

“Did I wake you, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Shut up, asshole.” She gave him a playful shove. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Leave the worrying to Derek.” A gruff growl from the van made Stiles smile. “Speak of the devil.”

Derek stepped out of the van with his usual dour expression in place. Stiles gave Derek _a lot_ of shit but he hoped that deep down Derek knew it was out of friendship. He was a Grumpy Gus, but he was _their_ Grumpy Gus.

“Here.” Derek took Stiles’s wrist and fitted it with a watch. “I’ll be able to monitor your heartbeat this way. If it ever gets too fast I’ll send you a text, okay?”

Stiles saluted just to be an asshole.

“Yes, sir.”

Derek sighed.

“Peter is dangerous. Please take this seriously. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Allison made a soft noise beside him and squeezed his arm. Stiles blew out a long breath and opened his arms. 

“Everyone here needs a group hug. Bring it in.” Allison had him in her arms in a second but Derek lingered back. Stiles pulled back from Allison’s hug. “Um, Derek, the word group implies more than one.” 

“I can’t. He might smell me on you.”

Derek flexed his fingers and his frown deepened. Stiles squeezed Allison tight. 

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Allison, I want you go give this to Derek.” He hugged her tight, savoring the feel of her cheek against his. “I’m going to be okay.”

He let her go and Allison immediately turned and hugged Derek. He blinked before he pulled her close, lifting her off the ground as she pressed her cheek against his. 

“Derek.” She spoke in a whisper. “He’s going to be okay.” 

Sunlight began to peak over the faraway mountains. Stiles went to the bakery and entered through the back, slipping on an apron and getting to work. He worked with a determined speed. 

He hoped Derek believed him, though it wasn’t like he had much of a voice. Even if Stiles were lying, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably rushed when it came to editing just so I could post it to night... so... that's a thing. I hope you guys like this chapter, I had a BLAST writing it. Had a lot of fun building suspense and I hope it works well. All comments and criticism welcome!


	3. The Lies We Need to Keep Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I took a creative writing class as an elective. The professor was a big guy, had a scruffy beard and wore Hawaiian shirts—more of a character than a person. One week he had us play a game. Sex or Death. According to him those two things were the basis of every motivation. He’d send us out into the city and told us to observe strangers.” Stiles tapped his watch again, his smile much more wistful. “I liked that game.”

Peter did not remember much of the Hale fire. His mind hadn’t been operating in terms of logic and reason; instead he regressed to instinct and reaction. 

He’d fallen out of his car, the screams of his Pack thick in the smoke—Hales that had flown in from all over the world to meet—all burning, all _howling_ —

He went to Talia, his Alpha— _his sister_ —and he ignored the fire that licked the skin away from his bones. He pulled and pulled, he roared and he finally made it out into the cold unforgiving air just in time to hear Talia’s heartbeat for the last time. 

The stars twinkled, mocking him as he held Talia in his burned-black arms. _Impotent Second,_ they sneered, _disgrace to the Hale name. At least Derek and Laura are away at college,_ the stars laughed, and it started to sound like Peter’s own voice, _they’ll rebuild._

Peter closed his eyes. He didn’t die. Even Death was too disgusted to claim him. 

When he woke ten years later it was Tuesday in the witching hours of the morning. He startled an orderly when he stumbled into the hallway with rubbery legs and the polite request for water. 

His nurse’s name was Amy. She was a sweetheart with dirty-blonde hair and a naïve but good-natured outlook on life. She was _“just so excited to tell your niece and nephew about your recovery, I’m sure they’ll be here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. How hard can it be get on a plane?”_

Derek and Laura lived in New York. Amy wasn’t sure where. She became less excited to talk about them the longer it took for them to set a date to come visit. 

Peter ignored the ache of _abandonment_ and focused on relearning his muscles. Even with accelerated healing, ten motionless years took a toll on his body. 

Two months passed before Laura arrived on a sunny Saturday morning. 

“Are you _sure_ you’re ready to go, Mr. Hale?” Amy whispered to be discreet, though it didn’t matter. Laura could hear her clearly in the next room. “I know family is important but…” Amy swallowed, her eyes welling with tears, “She took _two months_ and barely called—how will she take care of you if—?”

Laura’s shoulders flinched. Peter slid his hands to cover’s Amy’s. She really was a sweet girl. She squeezed his fingers as Peter smiled. 

“I’ll be just fine. I’m sure my darling niece needed time to adjust to the notion of having an uncle again.”

Amy said nothing more on the matter. She wheeled him out and her last surprise was a small arrangement of four red roses. She flushed, the plastic crinkling in Peter’s hands.

“Sorry,” she said with a wobbly smile, “I couldn’t afford the whole dozen.” 

Peter kissed her knuckles and promised to check in and that _yes_ he’d call if he had any follow-up questions or concerns, he promised. 

Laura didn’t say much that day. She never said why Derek had stayed behind in New York and she didn’t offer to help when Peter’s arms shook when he pulled himself into the car. 

It was hard not to stare. Little Laura, the girl who giggled and nipped at Peter’s heels until he chased her in circles, had grown up into a strong Alpha. She had dark circles under her eyes and wore her hair in a tight bun. They drove to the old house in silence until they stood before the ruins of what their Pack used to be. 

During the months he waited for his Pack to collect him Peter remembered more and more of that horrific night. Specifically, he recalled the flash of blonde hair and red lipstick— _Kate Argent_ —laughing at him through the flames. She’d written him off for dead, but her stench coated the scene. Wolfsbane and lavender, he’d never forget it. 

Ash and wood fell away under his hand when he touched the exoskeleton of their home. 

“Laura, darling,” Peter tilted his head back and relished the sun’s warmth against his skin. “Tell me you’ve killed the _louse_ that murdered our Pack.” Peter would have loved to do it himself, to present Laura with the head of their attacker, but ten years was too long to go without closure. Laura’s heartbeat increased and her breathing came in harsh, uncontrolled bursts. Peter turned, alarmed. “Laura?”

Tears streaked down Laura’s, _Little Laura’s_ , cheeks and her eyes bled crimson. Her fangs cut against her lips and tongue as she growled, raw and savage. 

“How _dare_ you—”

Her claws came out and Peter was confused, his legs still weak as she came for him. Names like “Monster,” and “Traitor” cut him to his core as her claws went for his throat. His back hit the ash and cinders, his injuries screaming—and his mind went to that primitive place where all he could do was breathe and bleed.

Peter howled and did what he did best:

Survived.

::::

The five days approaching the full moon were always a trial. Peter’s fangs were on edge, cutting into his tongue if he didn’t pay attention. He holed himself up in his office most of the days and would pass on any offers of lunch from the other attorneys. His skin was too tight and his saliva tasted like copper. 

“Peter.” Lydia’s stern voice cut through his clenched jaw and fists. “Take the next few days off.” Peter opened his mouth to argue and Lydia cut him off. “You don’t have any work left. I know you. Our girls in reception are starting to gossip. They’re taking bets on a death in the family or drinking problems.” 

Peter snorted and stood. 

“Fine. You’ll have to tell Bruce.”

Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Please. He loves me.” She shoved his shoulder. “ _Go_. I’ll swing by tonight.” 

He acquiesced and gathered his things. Before he made partner it was easier look strung out and haggard. Now people talked. He slipped on his jacket and Lydia cupped his face before she kissed his cheek. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against her shoulder. 

“Now who’s trying to start rumors?”

“True. But you like it.” 

He did. Rumors made him a more permanent figure in the office. It gave him character. Lydia laughed when he voiced those thoughts. She said it made sound like an alien. 

Peter drove and he meant to go home but instead he stopped by the bakery. It was packed, school just got out and mothers were stocking up on desserts. Peter pressed himself into the corner by the gate separating the staff-only section and the wall. 

Stiles didn’t see him, his voice and smile strained until the rush finally ended and Peter approached the counter. 

“Peter!” Stiles brightened, his voice had a tired rasp to it. Peter smiled in return, a reflex instead of a jibe at the Betas. Stiles narrowed his eyes, his smile dimming. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful.”

“None taken. I’m feeling under the weather.” 

“Have you gone to a doctor?” Stiles swallowed. His concern was hypnotic. Peter was amazed that people—normal people living everyday lives—could have such room for empathy. It normally annoyed him; those overdone grimaces and meaningless words like _you’ll be in my thoughts_ were like broken glass against his skin. “Not because you’re incapable, but you know—you’re got the whole devastatingly-handsome-lawyer vibe going on, I’d hate for your ‘cred to be tarnished.”

Stiles had a way of balancing sentiment with sarcasm, a sour slice against the sugar. Peter smiled, a slow curl that made Stiles’s heart stutter charmingly—though his face never betrayed his interest. 

If anything, that made Stiles even more alluring. 

“Rest assured, I’ll be fine in a few days.” 

Stiles smirked. 

“Then back to lounging with the rest of the Greek Gods, what a hard life.”

They both laughed and Peter had an alarming fantasy so vivid and quick he almost stumbled backwards. It was of him chasing Stiles, pinning him down and licking up his ridiculous neck, all the while Stiles was laughing—naked under the full moon—

A loud clatter made them both jump. Isaac scrambled to catch falling mixing bowls. Peter heard the Beta’s heart; he knew he was listening to their conversation intently. No doubt he’d report everything the Big Bad Alpha was saying to Stiles. 

Peter had the grim realization that he didn’t care. Their terror no longer amused him as he turned back to Stiles. 

“So,” Stiles said as he snapped on a latex glove like a cheesy surgeon in a soap opera, “what will it be today, Peter?” 

Peter tapped his fingers against his chin.

“Let’s see…” 

He listed out a healthy assortment, a payment to Lydia for staying with him through the duration of the full moon. If he were a decent man Peter would put an end to his whimsical charade with Stiles. In fact, it was no longer a charade, though Peter would never admit it. Peter should cut him off and become a disinterested customer who only offered polite smiles and zero conversation. 

“You’ve finally seen the light that is the iced lemon teacake.” Stiles grinned. “I’m glad that you’ve taken my advice.” 

Stiles bagged the boxes and Peter conceded that he’d never be a good man. He was selfish and he cleared his throat as more customers came in. 

“Would you like to grab something to eat again sometime? Maybe dinner?”

“Uh, sure.” Stiles’s tone and expression were nothing but friendly. Peter admired his strong poker face even though with Peter’s hearing the point was moot. “But if you’re not feeling well—”

“I’ll make sure I’m in excellent health before I make a reservation.” Stiles beamed. “Text me.”

Stiles nodded, his ears pink. Peter felt ravenous as he left the bakery. 

He got home, stripped bare, and began to lay down towels and blankets on the living room floor. He showered, lit incense, and at seven he heard his door open, close, and lock. Lydia kicked off her shoes. 

“Bruce sends his love. He hopes you feel better and says you’re much too hard on yourself.” Peter took his time gathering fruit and bowls in the kitchen, smiling as he tracked Lydia’s voice. “For a fearless leader he sure can be a big softie.” 

Peter slipped on a comfortable pair of boxer-briefs and walked to the living room. Lydia had her clothes neatly folded on his couch. She was bare except for a pair of polka-dotted underwear. 

“Maybe that’s why even people like us are loyal to him.” Lydia hummed and broke out her bag that smelled strongly of mint. “You are too much, Lydia.”

“Thank you.” Lydia wrinkled her nose and brought out the bottle that held the facemask paste. “You first, then me.” 

She applied the cool mask to his face, neck, and shoulders, and he returned the favor. Packs built their bond through touch, runs, and all kinds of group activities. Lydia compromised that while she could never replace what Peter had lost, they could have their own practice. The first chapter was a spa night. 

His phone vibrated. A picture of Stiles with pink frosting on his cheek was sent to him, the caption read _Isaac is the worst friend ever, never told me about my sugary makeup._ Peter grinned, wide and wolfish as he typed out a response. 

Lydia leaned against him. 

“Who’s that?”

“His name is Stiles.”

His phone buzzed with a new message. Peter’s chest swelled with unbridled hunger. He was a very bad man indeed. 

::::

Full moons were shared with Pack. Traditions varied, but the constant remained—when the moon was full Packs were together. 

Peter’s last _true_ full moon outing had been two weeks before the fire. Cool summer breezes whispered through the grass and the stars hung bright above them. Peter watched Laura and Derek rip off their clothes eagerly, transforming into wolves and dashing into the forest. 

David, Talia’s husband, sighed with exasperation. 

“Even though they’re teenagers they still run like pups.” 

Peter had liked David. He’d been a shy wolf, the middle child of a small Pack. He was a good father. Loyal and nurturing. He joined his pups, his lope much more refined. Talia remained with Peter for a short moment.

“Peter, do you want a family?” 

She undressed slowly. Peter toed off his shoes as he stretched. He’d been bored, less focused on the moon and his Pack and more occupied with his meeting with a small Pack on the east coast on behalf of the Tribunal. Upon reflection, Peter would agonize over his flippancy.

“I have a family.”

Peter knew Talia worried about his bachelor status, but Peter was quite fine. He only needed his Pack. Talia was wired for motherhood as well as being an Alpha. Peter sometimes wondered if he’d be better suited as the Hale’s Alpha, if his cold and fast decision making would elevate the Hale name to the next level, perhaps even earning himself a seat on the Tribunal. 

He only dared to think such notions alone in the dark and they’d leave him feeling ashamed. His sister was softer than him and that’s what made him a desirable Second. He made it his mantra. 

“If I ever desire for something more you’ll be the first to know, Talia.” 

She looked like she wanted to say something more, a brief moment that twisted her lips. But David let out a joyous howl that was then joined by Derek and Laura. Talia was a wolf instantly, her form fierce and massive. She melted into the shadows and left Peter behind. 

His Pack howled for him to join, and he did with a fond sigh.

Why hadn’t he been joyous? Why hadn’t he treated the occasion with the gratitude it deserved? He’d lay awake, over a decade later, and wonder if he’d been different that night, if he’d played with his niece and nephew more… if Laura would still be alive.

Lydia flew down the highway in Peter’s 1964 red Mercedes Pagoda. 

She had on horn-rimmed white sunglasses and bright red lipstick. She grinned, savoring the engine’s purr. Peter growled beside her, hunched over as he reminded himself that tearing apart the leather upholstery would make him angry in the morning. 

“Oh, sorry.” Lydia slowed down with a visible wince. “I just—”

“Love the car, I know.” Peter breathed roughly through his nose as the sun sent violent red and purple bruises along the skyline. “It’s okay to drive fast, darling. The quicker we get there, the better.” 

Before Lydia, Peter would lock himself in his soundproofed bedroom and wait the full moons out. He’d hit the reinforced walls and would often wake up bloodied and bruised, but it was better than running around Los Angeles in the nude. 

They’d left California hours ago. Lydia took the exit and they made their way through dusty desert roads that weaved between looming rock formations. Lydia took off her sunglasses as the sky darkened. 

“You know I’ve spent more time in _Utah_ than I have in New York.” Lydia took them off road and parked them behind a cluster of boulders. “No offense to Utah, but clearly I need to rectify this.”

“I’ll take you to New York.” Peter felt feverish, slamming the door as he shredded his clothes. His voice lowered in pitch, his words slurring into animalistic growls. “We’ll stay in a high-rise and I’ll,” Peter choked as the moonlight washed over his skin. He used to slip into his wolf form so easily, but after the fire it was a struggle that could last up to an hour. He fell to his knees, the sand digging into his skin. “I’ll buy you—”

Peter’s nose and jaw elongated and he turned his face away from Lydia and her rapid heartbeat. 

“Peter, I was joking.” He wanted to retort but he could no longer speak, his bones and flesh snapping wetly in order to reform. Lydia never turned away even when he was at his most monstrous. “I mean, absolutely you’re taking me to New York, but that can wait.” 

Finally after painful minutes of transformation, he was done. He turned to her familiar heartbeat. He climbed onto the car seat and put his front paws on her shoulders until she laid down. He dragged his nose down her neck and chest. 

_Mine. Pack. Safe._

“All right. I’m good and scented.” Her fragile human hands gently pushed at his furry chest. “Go run. I’m fine, I’ll do contract work until sunup.”

Peter relented, eyes red, and returned to the sand. There were no cool, grassy plains and swaying trees waiting for him. All that was left for him were coarse sand and eroded rocks. He howled and there was no answer. There never would be an answer. 

With a final huff in Lydia’s direction he ran over the sand until he was a streak against the horizon. 

Peter came back to himself naked and crusted with sand. He groaned and was pleased that the sun wasn’t too high in the sky. He shook himself, sand falling from his hair, and made his way back to the car. 

Lydia looked up from her iPad, her lipstick and mascara smudged. 

“Thank God, I was about to pass out.”

She’d left his spare clothes folded on the hood of the car. He pulled them on quickly, wincing at his still sensitive skin. 

“It’s okay to sleep.” Peter climbed into the driver’s seat and took out his makeup remover pads, gently holding Lydia’s chin as he cleaned her face. “I wouldn’t have been offended.”

He swept the cloth over her eyes and lips, making sure to erase all traces of makeup. He could smell himself on her and he felt his cheeks get hot. She pinched his side, her eyes still closed as he got the last of her mascara. 

“Would you be embarrassed if I was another wolf?” 

Peter scoffed and took the cloth away from Lydia’s face. 

“No.”

“So stop being ridiculous.” She yawned and leaned against him as he started the car. “We do what we have to that’s what makes us stronger.” 

Her cheek slid down Peter’s shoulder. He smiled and maneuvered her so she was resting her head in his lap. She slept deeply, the sun in her hair making it like fire. Peter stretched, revitalized. Peter’s phone buzzed on the seat by Lydia’s legs. 

His screen lit up with the new message, and Peter smiled. 

_I finally have a day off! How does Wednesday night sound?_

::::

“Look away or else you’ll lose all respect for me.” Stiles crouched in front of a plushie keychain rack in Little Tokyo. Peter watched Stiles’s long legs bend as he ran his fingers over a pair of pink and purple llamas. “I’m serious. You gave me so much shit about my shoes, I’m all judged out for tonight.” 

“I promise the time of your judgment is over.” Peter smirked when Stiles rolled his eyes. “Though I won’t rescind my comments about your shoes.” 

How could he? They were gold, covered in glitter, and had neon-blue shoelaces. Stiles grabbed the pair of llamas and one sunflower. 

“Erica and Boyd will freak out, and Isaac will mope if he doesn’t get a present to so…” He twirled the bag between his fingers, his shoulder bumping into Peter’s. “Okay, where next?”

Lydia assured him that going out to dinner with Stiles was a good idea. Jackson had hit a dead end with Kate. She seemed satisfied to remain in her sister’s old house in Maryland. Most of her days consisted of sunning herself in the backyard. Peter knew he’d grind his teeth down to dust if he stayed inside and stewed about it. 

Stiles bounced ahead and almost knocked over a woman and floundered to keep a grip on his bag. Peter laughed, and Stiles turned with a grin. Peter took long strides to join him, his fingers catching on Stiles’s sleeve. 

“Are you hungry?”

“I might have had a nervous eating binge.” 

He wrung his hands and fiddled with his watch. Peter licked his lips, wanting to hold Stiles’s down until he was forced to be still. 

“How about dessert?” Even though it had been fifteen years since Peter had flirted with someone and meant it, he was comforted to know that he could still be charming. Stiles’s heartbeat jumped and pink spread from his neck to his cheeks. Peter straightened and kept his posture open and neutral. “I know an Indian place nearby. They have a great saffron ice pudding.” 

“Oh.” Stiles only looked disappointed yet relieved for a short moment. “Lead the way.”

Badmaash was a very contemporary restaurant with pop art, large sweeping windows, and white walls that made the colored lights even more vivid. Those same lights sent splotches of color on Stiles’s skin as he looked up to the second floor, his neck craning back and lips moving around a silent _“Wow.”_

“Peter!” A voice called out above the music, and a chubby yet glowing Ameet pushed his way to the front to shake Peter’s hand. “You son-of-a-bitch, I keep telling you to let me know when you’re going to swing by, I’d have a nice table ready for you. This guy,” Ameet shifted his focus to Stiles, “loves to keep people on their toes. The bastard.” Ameet shook Stiles’s hand. “I’m Ameet, my f-father and I own this place, and my brother cooks. You are?” 

“Stiles.” Stiles’s eyes met Peter’s briefly. “Just Stiles.” 

“Fantastic. Let’s see if I can find a table for you two.” 

There was a flurry of movement and a few waiters cleared a spot for them. 

“Okay.” Stiles leaned back in his chair. “I need to know why you’re a celebrity here.” 

“I did contract work for Ameet when it came to negotiating the lease.” Peter smiled and bumped his shoes against Stiles’s. “I rarely bring anyone here with me. I imagine Ameet thinks he’s being a subtle wingman.” 

Stiles’s heartbeat skipped and Peter’s lips parted. The pudding was excellent, and Peter eased off the innuendo in order to let Stiles regain his balance. 

They had both traveled extensively, and while Stiles hadn’t left the country he’d seen more of American than Peter. He spoke animatedly about a wind canyon in Oregon, a fruit orchard of eastern kiwis in New Jersey, and the campus life in DC. 

Stiles took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose. 

“Geez, I talk too much. Please, help me even it out.”

“I don’t mind.” Truly, Peter didn’t. “I don’t often speak to people who share such enthusiasm.” 

“Stop.” Stiles’s voice lowered, his smile suddenly hard. “Even my friends need a break from me.” 

His voice turned into a barb in the blink of an eye, sharp enough that Peter instinctively bristled. Stiles’s eyelashes fluttered, his mouth slipping open to apologize but Peter didn’t let him. 

“Tell me about your time at school.”

Peter made sure to take the light out of his own voice. This way they were both out of their comfort zone. The ambiance of the restaurant filled the silence. The pop music and colorful lights mocked Stiles’s serious expression. He clenched his fists before relaxing his fingers. 

“I took a creative writing class as an elective. The professor was a big guy, had a scruffy beard and wore Hawaiian shirts—more of a character than a person. One week he had us play a game. Sex or Death. According to him those two things were the basis of every motivation. He’d send us out into the city and told us to observe strangers.” Stiles tapped his watch again, his smile much more wistful. “I liked that game.”

Peter’s throat tightened. 

“Would you like to play it now? Start with Ameet.” 

Stiles glanced over Peter’s shoulder, to Ameet greeting a group of young women at the door with an exuberant smile.

“Death.”

“Really?” Peter quirked an eyebrow. “Seems like Sex to me.” 

“Sure. On the surface that’s what it looks like. But when he mentioned his father he stuttered and his smile was tight. He keeps checking his phone and judging by the frown on his face it’s not a booty call. His enthusiasm for being your wingman is spurred by his despair. He wants to share your happiness vicariously, to distract him from his father’s impending death.” 

Normal people would have been offended. Some might have even left in disgust. 

Peter was so aroused he was uncomfortable. His cock throbbed and when he spoke he was embarrassingly breathless. 

“Want to get some air?” 

Stiles swallowed, his eyes bright. 

“Sure.” Peter threw money down on the table. They darted through the crowd into the cold night air. “Whoa.” Peter had Stiles’s wrist in his hand. He could feel his rapid pulse and smell his adrenalin. “Did you want to play and people watch—?”

Peter turned and held Stiles’s face in his hands. He felt the _heat_ , felt his heartbeat, and heard his soft gasp when Peter kissed him.

As far as kisses went it wasn’t particularly scandalous or sensual. It was a press of lips, shared breath, an affirmation that Peter wasn’t normal, that Stiles didn’t need to hide when he was with him, and that Peter found him very attractive. 

Stiles’s lips were soft, a barely-there pressure. Peter pulled back to let the boy breathe. 

“If that was something you’re not okay with, I apologize.”

“No.” Stiles breathed out, his face scarlet. “Wait, I mean yes—yes, I’m fine with it. Just wasn’t expecting it.” 

“Really?” Peter’s thumb stroked Stiles’s cheek. “I thought I was being obvious.”

Stiles grinned. 

“A little. I just,” he shrugged and averted his eyes, “I thought you might be joking.” He wrung his hands and his fingers went to touch his watch—only to find that it was gone. Stiles’s sucked in a breath, his eyes widened, and if his heart pounded any faster Peter would go deaf. “My—my watch—”

He licked his lips and Peter was distracted by beauty. He vaguely noticed screeching tires, but people driving like maniacs in Los Angeles were nothing new. Stiles’s hand slid to the back of Peter’s neck and when he squeezed Peter thought his knees would give out. 

Stiles might have used a demure line but his confidence was apparent when his tongue slipped past Peter’s lips. He felt alarmingly out of depth as Stiles used his teeth to bite down on Peter’s lower lip and pulled slightly, all the while his nails scratching Peter’s neck. 

This kiss shook Peter down to his bones. He felt clumsy, his tongue sliding along Stiles’s. He captured Stiles’s tongue and _sucked_ , savoring Stiles’s breathless moan that followed. Peter’s mind was blank. His whole world narrowed until all that was left was Stiles. Each swipe of tongue and nip of teeth only served to make Peter shudder. In that moment if Stiles had asked for something Peter would have given him _anything._

When Stiles released him his lips were red and swollen, his brown eyes almost completely black. Peter leaned in to chase after those _sinful_ lips, but Stiles shook his head with a smirk. 

“Come on, handsome. I need to get my watch.” He tugged Peter’s wrist. “I’ll kiss you again if you come with me.”

Peter followed. He didn’t notice the white van turning off their street or the smell of burnt rubber it left behind. 

::::

DC became a ghost town around the holidays. Stiles sat on an ice-cold bench, his elbows on his knees and he let his head hang low. Pins and needles spread under his skin. _Deep breaths, Stiles,_ he thought as a few tears slipped down his cheeks, _you’ve come too far to lose it now._ He clutched his phone and leaned back. Stiles focused on his breathing as it began to snow. 

In for four. Out for four. 

There was a small, illogical part of him that wanted to call his dad. His inner child who still believed in monsters under the bed that could only be scared away by the Sheriff wanted him to call, and his phone was in his hand but—but— 

_But this was real. Some dude’s face transformed right in front of me. He roared. He had fangs._ Footsteps crunched over the snow and Allison sat beside him. She rubbed her hands together and blew on her fingers. 

“What the fuck was that, Allison?” Stiles crossed his arms tight over his chest, grateful that the temperature could excuse his trembling. “Is he… is he infected with something?”

“No.” Allison heaved out a breath. She looked a lot like her father, weary in a way that was mental, not physical. “He’s a werewolf.” 

It was a joke and on any other day Stiles would be laughing. But he’d seen Agent Hale panic and lash out. Stiles was lucky he managed to dodge his claws in time. Even with the alarming bone structure Stiles knew a panic attack when he saw one. 

“Is he okay?” 

Allison wove her fingers with Stiles’s. 

“Yes, he’s fine. Dad got him some water and a bite to eat. He’ll feel better.” She squeezed his hand. “Stiles, we didn’t mean to lie to you,” Stiles had to laugh at that, “but you were able to _lie_ to a werewolf. Dad didn’t think you could but I… I knew you had it in you.”

Stiles tugged his hand free. 

“What made you so sure?”

“Your heartbeat. It stopped wavering last year. And—remember when we had you in that MRI machine? Well, it showed the chemical reactions in your brain. You’d access parts used for memory but the chemicals never betrayed falsehood. No one has been able to fool a werewolf’s nose, Stiles. Not since you.” 

A grim thrill spread through his body. He finally met Allison’s eyes. 

“I want to know everything about them.” 

They stayed on the park benches as Stiles learned about Pack dynamics, enhanced senses, and wolfsbane. He kept Allison talking until she lost her voice, and hours later he was back in Chris’s office. 

Agent Hale stood when Stiles entered. 

“Hey.” Stiles tried to manage a smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It’s…” Agent Hale’s voice cracked. He swallowed and gave it another shot. “It’s all right.”

Chris and Allison gave them privacy, closing the door behind them. Stiles couldn’t be too mad at them. At least if he stuck with them he’d never be bored. He turned back to Agent Hale, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“It really isn’t. I’ve had panic attacks for a long time. I know—I know how much they suck.” He knew the feeling of tasting nothing but ash for days, of feeling like every breath could trigger another attack. Agent Hale might have been a werewolf with superior senses and healing, but he was still ashen. “They were testing me, I didn’t even know about…” 

Stiles waved his hand in Agent Hale’s general direction. He had no idea if saying the word _werewolf_ would somehow come across as rude. Allison had given him a thorough debriefing but it was one thing to have the textbook definition compared to the real thing. 

“I figured.” Agent Hale fixed him with the deadest of deadpan stares. “The ear piercing scream was a big hint.” 

Stiles snorted. 

Agent Hale was stiff. Most federal agents were but there was a different tension beneath Hale’s sturdy fame. 

So far Stiles’s job was, loosely defined, as internal investigations. Whenever someone was recruited, promoted, or up for evaluation—Stiles and Allison would rush off to meet them as Kind Strangers. It was fun, exhilarating, and Stiles was starting to get the feeling that many of those were also tests. 

He had a bare bones studio he barely stayed in, no college degree, and two voicemails from his dad. He’d never been happier. 

“How did your boss like the socks?”

Agent Hale’s eyes widened and the color returned to his face. Stiles smiled, the warmth finally returning to his bones. 

“He… he loved them.”

“I knew it.” Stiles could feel the currents shifting to pull him in a different, more ominous direction. “I’m Stiles Stilinski.”

He held out his hand. Agent Hale stared before grasping his hand, his claws pricking Stiles’s skin.

“Derek Hale. Nice to meet you… again.” 

Stiles wasn’t sure where the new tides were taking them, but he couldn’t help but look forward to the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took my time with this one, wanted to get it right. Comments and criticisms welcome!


	4. Lies to Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t look away.” Kate’s voice soothed her and her body was a comforting weight on her back. “It’s okay to be afraid but don’t let your fear take away your knowledge.” Allison took a deep breath, her eyes dragging over the fangs, the glowing eyes, and twisted claws. “This is a werewolf. This is what killed my sister… your mother.”

There was something to be said about the noises in rural places. Allison sat on an old tire swing, tired by her grandfather down by the river where weeping willows bent over the water. Fireflies emerged as the sun’s warm rays disappeared. 

To call it a paradise was lacking. 

Allison dipped her toes into the ink-black water. The natural beauty in the world was meaningless. Her mother was gone, killed by—

Her throat tightened and she pressed her hands to her eyes. For the first time in months her tears weren’t solely for her mother. They had changed from mourning to anger. Because if it had been some random mugger like the police report said her mother would still be alive. But it _wasn’t_ some tweaked out stranger it was a _monster_ a were—

“Hey.” Allison cracked her eyes open to see her aunt on the riverbank. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Allison swung her legs and grabbed onto Kate’s outstretched hand. Her skin was tanned and she had calloused palms that made Allison envious. She felt so soft in comparison, not like Kate who retained beauty along with feeling like a weathered warrior. After all, Kate had always been the aunt who would play with her as a kid. It was Kate who insisted that they were both princesses who battled evil dragons. 

Kate’s calloused fingers wove through Allison’s hair. 

“Come on, I want to show you something.” Kate led Allison by the hand over the Argent grounds like she was a child. They went up a large hill that overlooked the rolling fields of green. “It’s okay to be afraid, to be angry. It’s a natural response.” Kate groped around on the ground until she pulled on a rope and revealed a hidden door. “That anger, that fear—it’s what keeps us alive.” 

She lifted a heavy latch and flooded the underground bunker with light. The static-like numbness lifted away from Allison’s skin and she felt sharper, no longer lingering in a rose-colored pastime. Kate led her down the concrete steps. 

“Kate…?” It was massive and smelled like musty dirt. It had an oddly homey feel to it. An old Oriental rug stretched across the floor, tapestries hung from the ceiling, and many bookshelves lined the walls. “What is this?” 

Soil and rock deafened the sound of cicadas and water. Allison’s’ heartbeat was a steady drum as Kate pushed open an oak door. 

Amber light washed over Allison’s skin. The smell of history was overwhelming, a heavy mixture of lavender, charcoal, and wax. Kate still had her by the hand, her smile warm as she guided Allison’s fingers to the handle of a bow. The weapons were as archaic as the smell.

“This is the Argent legacy.” 

The bow’s wire was tight. Allison glanced to the side at a large illustration on a tan canvas—only to see the snarling face of a… a… 

She went to turn her head away but Kate was there, her hands winding around from behind her, her dry skin cupping Allison’s cheeks. 

“Don’t look away.” Kate’s voice soothed her and her body was a comforting weight on her back. “It’s okay to be afraid but don’t let your fear take away your knowledge.” Allison took a deep breath, her eyes dragging over the fangs, the glowing eyes, and twisted claws. “This is a werewolf. This is what killed my sister… your mother.” 

Kate’s touch was a calm caress against the jagged loathing that threatened to tear Allison to pieces. 

“But remember, they’re animals. They can be killed. It’s okay to be afraid, but know that they also fear you.”

The three months were filled with strain and sweat. Kate shaped Allison into someone to be feared. 

Allison wiped sweat from her forehead. Her hands were buried in dirt as she pulled weeds out of the flowerbeds. Kate tossed Allison a bottle of water, climbing over the flowers. 

“Gardening is a good hobby. Helps you mediate.”

She had names for all the flowerbeds, bushes, and trees. Her laughter was infectious as she shouted, “No, not the Goldbergs, they’re my favorite peonies! Don’t be stingy with water!”

When her father came to pick her up in September she no longer had soft hands. 

::::

Agent Hale sat stiffly in Stiles’s kitchen. Allison leaned against the doorway while Stiles chattered on. The smell of eggs and bacon made her mouth water. 

“Come on, don’t you guys want to eat first?”

“I can do both,” Allison said.

“I don’t like to waste time,” Agent Hale spoke at the same time. His jaw snapped shut, his shoulders tight. Allison ground her teeth, taking even breaths as the werewolf squirmed in his chair. “I mean, if you don’t have anything prepped—”

“Uh, excuse me.” Stiles put down two steaming plates with eggs, toast, and bacon. Allison sat down, smirking at Agent Hale’s flustered expression under Stiles’s merciless glare. “Lesson number one, Hale: I don’t slack off. If you think I’m going to half ass this thing well, sorry to disappoint.” Stiles winked. “So eat up. We need you to be sharp, Agent.” 

Allison gripped her knees tightly to keep herself from flinching. Stiles was… Stiles was brave in a way Allison had difficulty understanding. He liked to push and pull, to roughly press someone’s buttons with a bright smile and a witty quip to cool down any annoyances. Watching him work was thrilling and Allison had days where she didn’t know if she envied or pitied him.

Agent Hale wasn’t a clueless politician or Senator. He was a werewolf and Allison’s tongue was thick in her mouth. She couldn’t tell Stiles that he shouldn’t treat Derek the same way. He was dangerous. He was an Omega who had an unstable Pack Alpha that he was hoping to pin for murder. Just because Derek was calm now didn’t mean he’d stay that way. 

Her heartbeat was rapid and Hale shot her a brief, concerned glance when Stiles left the room. He didn’t say anything and they ate in silence. 

“Okay,” Stiles called from his bedroom, “If any of you need reading glasses now is the time to pull them out.” Stiles ventured out into the kitchen and tossed down three thick packets. He sat on his counter. “If there’s any typos that’s on me. I got about two hours of sleep, I wanted to be ready for you.” 

Hale’s eyes widened. Allison hoped he’d get over his shock soon. She learned quickly that underestimating Stiles was an exhausting and useless exercise. Allison and Stiles grinned at each other as Hale opened the packet. While her father smoothed things over with Hale’s superior and partner, Stiles was miles ahead. 

“You…” Hale’s throat clicked. “You want to start at the Tribunal?”

“Yes.” Stiles spoke around a mouthful of rye toast. “You only mentioned the bare bones, but they’re your law keepers right? That’s why you came to us. Because they didn’t do shit.” Allison broke into a sweat when a muscle jumped in Hale’s neck. “If you went to them they must have that on file, and I’m going to bet that they have an open correspondence with your Uncle.” 

Traffic hummed outside. Derek swallowed with a dry click. 

“It would be dangerous. I’ve already said enough to be a pariah, but this… this would get me executed. The Tribunal isn’t exactly common knowledge, even among,” his eyes darted over to Allison briefly, “humans that are educated about werewolves.” 

Stiles’s dossier broke down ways to infiltrate and time estimates, even clothes he’d need for different back-stories. Hale closed the packet, his knuckles clenched until they were white. Stiles spoke, softer than this usual enthusiasm. 

“Derek, I don’t want you to be executed. If you think there’s nothing to be gained from digging we’ll just go to Los Angeles. I got notes on where to start, that’s in the back, I just thought—”

“It’s not a bad idea.” Hale bowed his head with a heavy sigh. “The file would have been opened ten years ago. When my sister,” his voice cracked, “requested an in-Pack execution and was denied. After she died I asked for an appeal, and it was denied as well.”

He made a vague gesture as if to say _so here I am_. 

After he’d regained his composure when Stiles was put to the test, Hale gave them a detailed rundown of the Hale history that led him to ask Chris Argent for help. Until then Allison had thought Pack bonds were sacred. She shuddered to think what Peter Hale was like. Anytime she tried to imagine him all she could think of was the nightmares she had after her mother died. 

Glistening teeth in the dark, labored breathing, and long howls that chased Allison out of sleep. 

“Okay.” Stiles clapped his palms together. “Is it possible that one of these Tribunal members has been _bought_ somehow? That maybe they looked the other way because of a bribe?”

A stark silence fell over the kitchen. 

“Anything is possible.” Agent Hale sniffed and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. “Do you have a pen?” 

“Yeah.” Stiles patted himself down until he found a purple pilot G-2 in his pocket. “Here.” 

The rest of the morning was spent with Derek marking up Stiles’s dossier with notes, speaking in hushed tones about the Tribunal that held order and centuries of history for werewolves. He glanced at Allison every so often. She remained still and let her eggs get cold. 

::::

“Will the TSA allow this little guy to be a carry on?” Stiles had Allison’s succulent, a little lithop named Paublo, in his hands. “I didn’t look it up.”

Allison struggled to limit her luggage to just four large suitcases. Her bangs were sticky with sweat as she lugged the last bag out. It had taken her two days for Allison to be comfortably ready. It took Stiles two hours. She flopped own on the couch and tilted her head back toward the air conditioner. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Allison quirked her brows up in surprise before she opened her eyes. Stiles only asked permission for questioning when it was serious. They had an unspoken practice of not asking anything deeply personal. Questions like _Why doesn’t Stiles have any family photos? Why did he call his father once a week but only visited him for Christmas? Why did it only take two hours for Stiles to pack away his entire life?_

“Sure.” Allison crossed her legs and hit the couch cushion next to her with her hand. “Shoot.” 

Stiles joined her, extending his long legs into her lap. 

“Derek makes you uncomfortable. Is there a particular reason or is it because of what he is?” 

His fingertips gently prodded Paublo’s odd, rock-like form. 

“It’s not that simple.” Allison’s lips pulled down, betraying her discomfort. “Stiles, the fact that he’s alone, that he hasn’t replaced his Pack is disturbing. It goes against his biology, that type of animal requires—”

Stiles’s ankles bumped roughly against Allison’s thighs as he scrambled to stand. Allison saw him struggle to keep his fingers lax. She knew it was a lot digest in such a short amount of time, she couldn’t imagine how Stiles had to compartmentalize so much new information. Maybe this would stop him from being so caviler in how he treated Hale and make him think twice before being so affectionate and friendly.

“I’m going to take a walk.” Stiles nodded twice. “Allison, I just… you don’t think less of your dad because he didn’t remarry and have more kids, right?”

“What?” A hot flare of rage bubbled under her skin so rushed and deep it was alarming. “ _No_.” 

“Good.” Stiles crossed his arms tightly across his stomach and his gaze was heavy, like it had been the first few weeks of his employment with the Kindness of Strangers, like he expected to wake up from an exquisite dream. “We adapt, right? Just because values differ and priorities get shifted doesn’t take away our,” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, “humanity.” Stiles glanced towards the door. “I mean, just because it’s the _tradition_ for werewolves to have a Pack doesn’t mean they can’t adapt. Derek did what he had to.” 

Allison winced at the sting of bile in her throat. 

“Stiles, there’s a name for what he is—”

“ _Who_ he is.” Allison picked at her skin when Stiles wouldn’t meet her gaze; she kept chasing the itch that went down to the bone. “I’m going to walk. And… we’ll come back to this.” 

He left before Allison could respond. She had to stand, to work off the anger because Stiles had _no idea_ what he was dealing with—how could he lecture her when she had years of knowledge compared to him? She splashed water onto her face and when that didn’t help she slipped into her jogging clothes and decided to sweat it out before she got a migraine. 

Each thud of her feet brought her closer to being hyper-present. All that mattered was her even breaths, the sweat on her back, and the path laid out before her. 

She admitted, after the first three miles, that Stiles’s words were like salt grating a wound. The instinctual reaction was to dismiss his idealism as ignorance, but she could hear her father’s weary voice whispering, _“Don’t forget all the angles, Allie.”_ Mile four she ignored the soft burn in her lungs and she made facts her mantra. 

Peter Hale was the sole survivor of the fire that burned most of the Hale Pack to death. Ten years later he came out of a coma and killed his Alpha (and niece) Laura Hale and inherited her Alpha status. He admitted to the murder before the Tribunal and was still allowed to go free. 

Agent Hale served in the military with an exceptional record and was approaching his fourth year as an FBI agent. Though Peter was technically Derek’s Alpha Derek rejected Peter as Pack. He considered himself to be alone but did not use the term Omega. Agent Hale’s only sign of aggression was after Stiles deliberately lied to his face to prove his control over his body chemistry, which caused Agent Hale to panic. Such an occurrence had not happened since. 

Allison stopped after seven miles under a tree in a park. She tilted her head back. _All the angles, Allie._

She opened her eyes and three feet from her was Special Agent Robert Finstock. Instead of keeping her composure Allison recoiled, the blood draining from her face with an alarming speed. He immediately took a step back, doing his best to smile despite it coming across as a grimace. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Allison forced her hands to remain at her sides and not clutch to her chest. 

“No worries.”

She smiled and turned to walk, never run, in the opposite direction. 

“I might not have meant to startle you, Miss Argent, but I did come here with a purpose.” 

Allison froze, her knees locked, before she turned back to the Agent. 

His hair was wild and his eyes had an over-caffeinated gleam to them. His teeth were too big for his jaw and his jacket was poorly fitted that and suited a mad scientist more than a federal agent. Allison’s instinct was to placate and dismiss such a character, but her dad had warned her about Finstock, how every part of his image was meant to be disarming. 

“What can I do for you, Agent Finstock?”

“Hey, that’s _Special_ Agent Finstock to you.” He gestured to the billowing trees with short jerks. “Walk with me. This is a little too Deep Throat for me.”

He grinned at her with those large, white teeth and Allison’s stomach curdled. She followed him, a few steps behind as they made their way back to the busier streets in DC. The path Finstock set for her was back toward her apartment. 

“Jesus, please relax. Kids like you shouldn’t be so tense.” He rubbed his gloved hands together and blew into them, the tip of his nose red. “You know, I’ve met you before. Back when you were about this tall,” he put his hand up to his waist, “back when your dad still went to Crawford’s barbeques.” 

“We… we met?” Allison frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“Don’t worry about it, I didn’t except you to.” He blew out a large puff of air, letting it cloud in front of him. “I just wanted to chat and get to know the person I’m entrusting my partner to.”

“I thought you met with my father—”

“I did, but I wanted to meet with you. Chris was tight-lipped about who was on his team.” 

Finstock stopped outside of the coffee shop just three blocks down from Allison’s building. She blew on her hands even though she was certain Finstock knew she wasn’t cold. 

“You don’t have to believe anything I say. If you’re prepared to think the worst than there’s nothing I can do to change your opinion.” Allison tilted her chin up. There were a few streets that she could take if she had to, she knew the back alleys well enough to lose anyone who might give chase after she broke Finstock’s arm. “I don’t bother in futile exercises.” 

Finstock was silent for two seconds before he doubled over in laughter that scared the pigeons away. Allison’s cheeks grew hot as a few people glanced over curiously. 

“Oh geez. Even as a kid you still had such a sharp attitude. Fuck.” He wiped his eyes, his lips still twitching. “You know the whole half glass full or half glass empty thing, right?”

Allison rolled her eyes. 

“Yes. Optimism versus pessimism.” 

“Great! That’s the question I pose to you. I like Derek. I love that kid, I want to see him relax and smile every once and a while, you know? But this… family thing has been eating away at him. I want my partner to be in excellent hands.” Finstock’s eyes cut through Allison’s body despite his luminous grin. She kept her back straight and her expression indifferent. Would Finstock still be so absolute in his loyalty if he knew what Agent Hale really was? “Are you half full of bullshit, or half empty?”

In twelve hours Allison, her father, Stiles, and Agent Hale would be on a plane to Seattle to infiltrate the MacGuillis Pack in order to peek through Alpha MacGuillis’s files since she was one of the nine members of the Tribunal. After that they would move onto Los Angeles and Stiles gave them a generous estimate of a year and a half before they could confirm Peter’s crime. She’d be dedicating a _year and a half_ to Agent Hale and his superior still expressed doubt.

“So,” Finstock ran his tongue over his perfect teeth, “which one are you?”

_It’s okay to be afraid,_ Aunt Kate’s voice returned to her, _remember that they are animals and they are afraid of you._

::::

Rain was a common joke about Washington State but Allison swore to never laugh at another precipitation jibe because she was sure the state was one life raft away from drowning. Her hair was constantly frizzy and she’d grown used to not wearing makeup. In a way, she felt freer, less constricted. The West Coast was much more relaxed in that sense. 

“Stiles,” Allison smiled, peeking out from under her umbrella. “You look ridiculous.” 

Bainbridge Island felt like a Ghibli oasis. The greenery, the smell of the ocean, and how the hills just seemed to constantly roll made Allison feel like she was trapped in a fairytale. Crafts were a big thing, everyone seemed to have a form of art they respected and pursued.

Pottery was their in and Stiles blended into his art class effortlessly. He wore roughed up jeans that were too big and had a limp. He was a high school football star whose career was cut short and was now in recovery mode, trying to figure out where he fit in his new life. He was shy and would beat himself up for the slightest mistakes, but slowly began to smile after the third week of classes. Two months in he started trading recipes and now—

Now Stiles leapt into puddles full force and took a dive into the mud. Allison shrieked after cold water and mud hit her legs and polka-dotted boots. They weren’t on the island; they had taken a drive up north to narrow the chances of running into a Bainbridge local. Stiles titled his head back, absolutely filthy as the rain pelted away bits of dirt and grime. 

“Come on,” Allison offered him her hand, “I think that’s enough for—” He gripped her hand and yanked until she fell into the puddle, half in his arms, half knee deep in water and mud. “Asshole!”

“Love you too.”

The rain lessened into a thick mist and they went back to the car. Allison turned on the heat and checked her phone. Stiles kicked off his shoes and his body began to tremble when his clothes became cold and clingy. The heaters sputtered and Allison scrolled through her feed and rolled her eyes. 

“Another girl from high school is getting married.” Stiles scooted over, peering at her phone. “Sarah Hoskins. She bullied me in the fifth grade.”

“Oh. Well, fuck her then.” Stiles’s teeth chattered and Allison shifted the car into drive and got them back to the road. “Everyone is getting married and having babies. You’d think there was law passed.” He stretched and his neck popped. “Do you think in an alternate universe we’re all settled down and have kids?”

“Sure.” Agent Hale and Chris set up home base on the other side of the harbor. It was done out of precaution, so just in case the worst happened and Agent Hale was found out, he technically wouldn’t have been encroaching on the MacGuillis territory. “I’d be the breadwinner. Like a superintendent at a prestigious school and you’d be the stay-at-home-dad.”

“Whoa, whoa, who said that _we_ would be married? What if I was your cool neighbor?”

“Nope.” Allison pulled into their parking spot. “You’re my husband and you charm everyone at the PTA meetings.”

“Seriously, Allison, you’re going to make me barf.” Allison slid her key into the door. “Please tell me you’d wear power suits with shoulder pads.” 

“ _Shoulder pads,_ ” Allison laughed, “Jesus—”

The door swung open and her dad was at his desk, his eyes wide behind his reading glasses. Derek stood immediately at attention, his jaw tight. 

“Stiles.” Allison’s father cocked an eyebrow. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold. But that’s the point.” He toed off his socks. “Derek, could you grab some cheap sheets? I don’t want to get the couch dirty.” 

“I’m going to take a shower.” 

Allison saluted with a smile to her dad, and glanced briefly at Agent Hale. He went to grab sheets as Stiles pulled off his hoodie and left his tank top on. Agent Hale returned and steadied Stiles before he draped a sheet around his shoulders. 

She looked away and hoped the hot water would lift her unease. The steam and water cleansed her skin and soon she was wrapped up in her warm pajamas. She passed her father in the hallway and she did her best to ignore the deep wrinkles in his face and the bits of grey peppered throughout his hair. 

“Don’t stay up too late.” He kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, Allie.”

“’Night, Dad.” 

Stiles set up camp in the living room. He’d stripped down to his boxers and a thin shirt that was too big for him. Agent Hale sat on the far end of the couch, Stiles was in the middle, and Allison flopped down next to Stiles. He switched on _Rick and Morty_ and shared the blanket with Allison. 

“All right, Derek, pay attention because I’m pretty sure your boss,” Allison shivered at the thought of Finstock and his crazed smile, “is Rick.” 

She fell asleep quickly with her legs in Stiles’s lap. 

Sometime later the television was still on but muted. Allison couldn’t tell how long she’d been out, but she kept still when she heard Stiles’s voice. 

“—wrong with it. I’d get freaked out if random strangers touched me. I’m just saying, don’t rule it out. I’m a willing participant if you ever want to experiment… wow that came out so—”

“You’re ridiculous.” Agent Hale spoke softly. Allison could hear him smile. “Here, just… be still.”

Allison opened her eyes to see that Stiles had this back to her. Agent Hale had his hand on Stiles’s face and he gently trailed it down to his shoulder and arm. He glanced at her, his cheeks pink. 

“Remember, I won’t be offended—”

“It doesn’t hurt.” His eyes were back on Stiles. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels nice.” 

“Told you. People think moderation means half-and-half. You don’t need to become a man of high-fives and group hugs. Just a few people can be that for you.” Agent Hale made a fragile noise that someone of his size and stature shouldn’t make. “It’s like I told Allison,” Stiles said casually, “obviously I’m never going to preach that honesty is the best policy. But I do _need_ people that I can be honest with. Lying all the time is toxic. I have people I can be my absolute self with and so I’m fine with lying to the rest of the world. Allison and Chris are those people for me. You can’t just wait for someone to agree to be your confidant. Not a lot of people seek the responsibly. If you meet the right people, it’s important to ask, you know?” 

Allison’s throat was tight. Stiles had shared similar words with her before, except they’d been younger. It had been a few months into the Kindness of Strangers when he hugged her and said he wanted to be honest with her. _I know what it’s like waiting and having to hide all the time, and I just want to take a break from it, just with you._

They’d both cried and there were a lot of tight hugs and kissed cheeks. 

“Sometimes it feels like that option is taken from you, but it isn’t.” Agent Hale nodded, his eyes shining, and Stiles opened his arms. Agent Hale embraced him and his expression was a rapt mixture of exhaustion and bliss. “I’ll crack Miriam open and we’ll all head over to LA.” 

Los Angeles. It sounded less like the city of angels and more like a judge’s gavel ringing in a hollow court. 

“Thank you.” Agent Hale rubbed his cheek against Stiles’, his arms tightening their hold on him. He opened his eyes and Allison was familiar with the kind of tears that lingered on his cheeks. “I think the three of us will make a great team.”

“Psh.” Allison felt the echo of the smile that must have pressed against Agent Hale’s skin. “We _are_ a great team.”

The light from the television fell harshly against Agent Hale’s face. Stiles’s breathing evened out and he snored lightly against Agent Hale’s shoulder.

Her father had made several of enemies over the years. He didn’t like the play bureaucratic games and would shut someone down if he thought they were a waste of time. He hadn’t brushed Agent Hale off. Allison felt adrift in the dark, sharing Stiles’s space with Agent Hale. 

Prickles of unease still stung when she was around him. It was the first time she’d seen a werewolf alive and up close. For a long time she considered them to be animals to be handled with extreme caution and necessary brutality. 

Her heart fluttered as she felt that idea reshape itself in the vast dark. Kindness of Strangers was still a sapling organization. By next year Stiles and Allison would be out recruiting. She had a feeling that if Stiles asked, Agent Hale would stay. 

_It’s okay to be afraid._

Allison moved quietly forward and dragged her fingers over Agent Hale’s skin, feather-light so that goosebumps sprung up in her wake. He made a soft noise in his throat. 

Allison knew that this was one of the moments her father would always tell her about. Moments when friendships were made and bonds were forged that lasted through any trials thrown at them. She smiled at Derek in the dark.

_It’s okay to be afraid, because together we’re going to do great things._

::::

John supposed that there were days when townsfolk would catch up at church and keep each other in the loop, especially small towns like Beacon Hills. Linda Mahler had John cornered between the cereal and holiday cards and John had the grim realization that grocery stores were the new Sunday church sewing circle. 

“It’s not all that uncommon, taking a year sabbatical from one’s studies.” Linda nodded sagely, her eyes narrowing behind her moon-rimmed glasses. “My grand-daughter spent a year in Tibet, came back all refreshed and ready to finish her degree.”

Stiles had taken more than a year off. It started as a sabbatical and turned it into “You know, American University just isn’t for me. I love it—I know, I know great alumni, but I don’t think it’s for me, Dad. Trust me.” Whenever Stiles had to ask for trust made John wary, but he hadn’t pushed it. When his son had finally returned his birthday call his voice was so blown out from a throat cold that John couldn’t bring himself to press harder for the truth. He waited for Stiles to come home to figure things out. 

He never did. 

“—just loved it, she wants to go back once she’s had the baby. I’m sure your boy Samuel—”

“This name is Stiles.”

“Stiles, Stiles—that’s what I meant.” Linda touched John’s arm, her lips pulled back in what Stiles used to call a cellophane smile—so bullshit you could see right through it. “I’m sure Stiles just needs some room to grow. He’ll find a nice girl, settle down—”

John glanced over Linda’s shoulder just in time to see Melissa McCall round the corner with a half-full shopping cart. 

“Melissa!” John raised his hand as he called out to her. Her lips curled into a world-weary smile. She still had her scrubs on and John edged away from Linda Mahler, his knuckles white as he gripped his basket. “Sorry, Mrs. Mahler, I have to check in with Ms. McCall.” 

John told himself it wasn’t running if it was a few feet. Melissa took his basket and paced it in her cart with a crooked smile. 

“I’ve never known you to run from a fight.” 

“Fights, no. Just gossiping old ladies.” His posture relaxed in bits and pieces. “Thanks for the assist.” 

Melissa snorted, a frizzy lock of her hair falling free from her hair tie. 

“Anytime, John.”

Melissa McCall was a special kind of sanctuary. She was weathered warmth that John hadn’t experienced since Claudia. He hoped, only when he was trapped in a sleepless night and the silence of his empty house whispered to him, that he provided the same comfort. 

“How’s Scott and Kira?” 

“Oh, you know,” John walked Melissa back to her old Volvo parked all the way at the far end of the parking lot. “Kira’s still sweet as ever, she’s almost finished with her degree.” Melissa blew out a long breath as opened her back door and grabbed her heaviest bag. “Scott and Deaton’s practice is still going strong.” Melissa leaned her hip against her car, knowing better than to insist on putting away her groceries herself. “He’s going to propose to Kira this Christmas.” 

John fumbled a loaf of bread. 

“He is?”

Melissa nodded, her eyes shining too brightly under the streetlamps. 

“He’s got such a romantic speech planned, he’s so nervous.” She shook her head. “He practices with me on the weekends.” 

“I don’t think Scott has anything to worry about.”

“Me neither, but you know him. He puts his heart into everything.” Melissa wiped away some stray tears discreetly. “Time flies.” Melissa took a deep breath and smiled brightly. “How’s Stiles?” 

“He’s good.” John hated that he didn’t know if he was lying to her or not. “Still in DC, checks in, seems to be… seems to be good.”

Melissa’s smile dimmed and John had to look away from the heavy weight of unspoken questions that had been building for the last three years. If the town thought _they_ had questions as to just what happened to the Sheriff’s son, they had no idea the anxious cacophony that deafened John to everyday problems. 

Questions of how Stiles could afford to live on his own in DC, did he have a job, a girlfriend, a boyfriend—was he _okay_ —would get their loudest in the quiet, rare moments of comfort that took John off guard. John could only say three things about Stiles with absolute certainty. 

He was in good health, he’d be home for Christmas, and he didn’t speak to Scott anymore. 

“It was good seeing you, Melissa.” John had years and years of practice when it came to keeping his voice even. He wondered when that habit had returned. “Pass long a hello to Scott and Kira.” 

He turned, his one bag of milk and eggs suddenly feeling a lot heavier. 

“John.” Melissa’s voice cracked and John whirled around. His heart leapt in his throat when he saw tears slide down Melissa’s cheeks. “Scott… he… he’s been planning his wedding since he was five. Stiles—” She had to choke out his name and it just made the constant ache in John’s chest worsen. “Stiles was always meant to be his best man, you know?”

“I-I know.”

Scott and Stiles would practice in the backyard as kids, using sippy cups as champagne flutes. 

“I don’t think that the proposal is what has Scott so nervous,” Melissa’s eyes shut and her whole body shuddered, “I think—I think the doesn’t know what to do without Stiles.” 

Small towns had a way of being unforgiving in their loneliness. 

John put his meager groceries away, his face still wet and prickly. He kicked off his shoes by the foyer and sat down on the couch with the same sigh he’d sighed every right. He dragged his hand down his face, each wrinkle feeling deeper than before. 

The brightness of his phone made him squint when he pressed it to his ear, each ring a familiar sound. 

_“Hey, it’s Stiles speaking on behalf of my voicemail. Leave a message. Or don’t, I don’t control your life.”_

It never failed to rouse a soft laugh from John. It was a message from a simpler time. Simple times when Stiles would protect his curly fries and tried to pretend he didn’t care about prom or… or… 

There were days when John had looked too close, or at least, when he told himself that he should have looked away and pretend he never saw anything. Pretend not to see how fast Stiles’s smiles would drop off his face or how his loud laughter never reached his eyes. John felt the old habits return, telling him he didn’t see anything, that getting hung up over old teenage angst was pointless. _Besides,_ that lying croak of a voice reasoned, _it’s natural for dark moods to hit teenagers._

Moonlight slid across the floorboards, casting a glare on the framed family photos on the wall. John tried not to stay up late because the silence would have a sharp and quiet voice of its own. 

_How many fathers can say it pains them to look at their son?_

John’s throat clicked and the voicemail recorded his silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just letting y'all know, I have no plans of having Stiles and Derek have any sort of romantic connection. To me, Derek just needs to feel physical contact again. It's been long since I've updated mostly because I wasn't sure if anyone wanted to read more, the last chapter didn't get much love. So let me know whether or not you want to read more, I love hearing from you!


	5. Affectionate Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles hid himself and Peter had a feeling that the young man wasn’t aware just to what extent he was doing it. Peter wasn’t offended. He had learned patience and the longer Stiles spent time with Peter the more he let pieces of himself slip out into the open.

Talia had been a lot like their mother. Beatrice Hale, as strong and fearless as she had been, sometimes was not as subtle as she believed. 

_“Do you find men attractive Peter?”_ She’d questioned him one morning when Peter had been twenty-one years old. _“It’s fine if you do.”_ Peter hadn’t answered, bristling at the squeeze of discomfort in his chest. His mother, and later Talia as well, misinterpreted it as an internalized shame. _“Peter, I just want you to be happy with whomever you like. You know that, right?”_

Peter hadn’t known how to politely respond because all he wanted to say was, “It doesn’t fucking matter to me one way or the other.” He’d gone out and lost his virginity like it was an assignment, not something he actually wanted. A woman had been his first and she was nice enough. A brunette with short hair and a loud laugh, and she was just as fine as the man with dark skin and green eyes. 

Talia didn’t believe that books and Pack satisfied like a sexual relationship, so every three to four months Peter would go out and sleep with a stranger just to prove that he could, just to act as though he had a craving to satisfy. 

After the fire, Peter didn’t have to bother with that charade. He didn’t have to bother with much of anything. 

Chilled night air broke over them like a wave as Peter drove down the freeway back to West Hollywood. Stiles wore Peter’s jacket and his heartbeat had been beating fast ever since he’d retrieved his watch. Stiles directed Peter to turn into a side street. 

“Thanks for dessert.” Stiles struggled to unbuckle his seatbelt as Peter gracefully got out of his side of the car so he could open the door for Stiles. “I-I, uh, it was great. I’m glad you could loosen up enough to be seen with someone wearing gold shoes.” 

He smiled, brandishing his humor like a sword and shield. Peter gently ensnared Stiles’s wrist, thumbing over his pulse. 

“I’m glad you had a good time, Stiles.” He felt slightly high off the unfamiliar feeling of honest desire. He wondered if people—hetero-normative people—felt this way on a day-to-day basis, this shockingly deep need to touch and be touched. “I was hoping—”

“I just want to—” They both paused. Stiles rubbed his free hand over his scarlet face. “I, uh, I’m not really into hookups. I tried, but—I’m a strictly monogamous person.” Stiles peeked through his fingers; his pulse racing and sharp bursts of stress corrupted his scent. “I don’t like going fast. And I’m not really good in bed, I don’t have sex that often and I’m probably not what… you’re expecting.” 

He rushed the words out like they were making him physically ill. Peter couldn’t help but think of what it had felt like all those years ago when his mother interrogated him about his sexuality. 

“I don’t have any expectations. It’s your call, what you want to do.” Peter kept rubbing at the soft, delicate skin on the inside of Stiles’s wrist, hoping to soothe him. “I…” Peter swallowed, forcing himself to summon the words. “I don’t often feel desire. I wouldn’t call it a low sex drive just—I never need it to be satisfied. People treat it like water, like fucking,” he noticed Stiles’s flinch at the word, “is necessary to survive. That’s not how it feels to me. Desire,” he caught Stiles’s gaze, “is just an added bonus, not nothing I can’t do without.” 

Peter knew that being so honest was a risk. He never bothered to label himself as anything other than “vaguely uninterested.” He knew Stiles wouldn’t be comforted by over-used phrases like, “we’ll take it slow,” or, “let’s play it by ear.” Stiles had humor as his armor, where Peter strategically wielded the truth like a blade. 

He waited and watched as Stiles’s breathing and heartbeat slowed. Stiles met his eyes, his cheeks fading from an angry red to a pale pink. 

“I…” When he smiled his eyes glistened. “I know _exactly_ what you mean.”

Stiles sounded as shocked as he was pleased. Peter grinned; he couldn’t help it, and licked his lips. 

“I’d like for us to be exclusive to one another. Anything else,” he gave in to the desire to palm Stiles’s cheek and feel how _warm_ he was. “Anything else we can discuss.” 

“Okay.” 

Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet. Peter swayed closer. 

“I’d like to kiss you—”

Stiles cut him off with a soft press of his lips. It was subdued, slower, but not boring as Stiles carefully stepped closer into Peter’s personal space. It was sweet, a part of it the aftertaste of saffron pudding, but mostly from how Stiles’s hands were gentle as they held onto Peter’s hips. Peter purred, happy that Stiles didn’t paw clumsily on him like Peter’s previous lovers. Stiles pulled back, his knees wobbling. 

“Goodnight. I’ll see you at the bakery and if you want to go out again—”

“I’ll text you.” Peter brought up Stiles’s hand and kissed it. “Goodnight.” 

“Oh my _God_.” Stiles laughed, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “Goodnight. Now _go_ before the clock strikes midnight and your Mercedes turns into a giant pumpkin.” 

Peter watched Stiles open the front gate to his apartment complex, dropping his keys twice before getting it right. 

Somewhere tucked away deep inside Peter—in a place he rarely ventured to—he wondered if Talia would have liked Stiles… if Stiles would have had a place in their Pack. 

He turned the keys in his ignition and pumped the gas to cover up the realization that he never would have met Stiles if it hadn’t been for the fire. 

Peter swallowed, the taste in his mouth an unpleasant bitter flavor. 

It was too early to tell if Stiles was the one positive thing to come out of his Pack being burned and splintered down to near-nothing. It would be unfair to place that much value on Stiles. 

Even so, Peter hoped that Stiles would be that silver lining in the dark storm clouds that hadn’t stopped following Peter since he awoke from his coma. 

::::

The smell of coffee was strong when Peter stepped out of the shower. He turned to see that Lydia had taken the local encyclopedia of California wildlife off of his bookshelf in order to turn the latch. His bookcase was ajar, light spilling out from Peter’s _true_ study. 

Lydia sat in an armchair, leaned over a desk as she printed out an article from a Michigan newspaper. 

_Trevor Silke, Forensics professor at Michigan University, fired and jailed due embezzling scandal._

The article itself wasn’t more than just a few paragraphs, buried near the back of the paper. Still, Peter grinned as he taped it up to the wall, another closure on his family’s death. Before Trevor had gotten his esteemed position at the university he’d been an arson expert for a nearby town, and he had dismissed the Hale fire as an accident, no doubt due to a bribe. Peter hoped he rotted behind bars, and if he didn’t Peter would be sure that Trevor would be rotting _somewhere_. 

“Jackson says she’s still not moving. He’s gave the assignment to a rookie to stake out her place.” Lydia twisted a few red locks of her hair around her fingers. “Are you sure she’ll come out west? Maybe she’s waiting for you.”

Peter studied the many pictures of Kate he had, most provided by Lydia’s friend, others by Alpha MacGuillis. He had her face burned into his mind—if he forgot everything else he’d remember Kate Argent. 

“No.” He took the coffee Lydia offered. “No, she’ll come. Derek’s a federal agent so she can’t go for him first.” He tapped his claws against the mug “She’ll come for me first in hopes making enough of a mess that Derek will _have_ investigate.”

It’s what Peter would do in her shoes. Lydia pushed closer to him. 

“I hate waiting.” Lydia whispered as if Kate was in the other room. “I want to end it.” 

“I know.” Peter ran his fingers through Lydia’s hair, gently untangling it from her anxious grasp. “We’ll wait for her to come to us. Home team advantage.”

Lydia hit his shoulder. 

“We could be in Arkansas and we wouldn’t lose.”

Lydia would make a great wolf. Peter wasn’t fit to care for a Pack, but once he had Kate strewn in pieces by his claws… Peter would have a future left. He wasn’t sure what he would do with all of that time that was his to dictate. He never thought about it. 

Alpha power wasn’t something Peter sought out—at least, not on paper. It was traitorous for a Second to even consider becoming an Alpha and Peter loved his sister and Pack too much to allow idle curiosity to tear the Hale name apart. But of course he wondered. How could he not?

Peter watched his sister use her Alpha voice sparingly, how she hid her strength beneath cashmere sweaters and Chanel perfume. When they met with other Packs the other Alphas would look down at Talia like she was too soft because her human disguise was impeccable. Peter didn’t hesitate to bare his teeth and tear into any disrespectful Alpha with a, “My sister will be treated with respect. Just because we’re considerably more fashion forward does not make us lesser wolves.” 

Had she been afraid of it? Was she merely saving it for when it was truly needed? Peter thought, only when he was alone and silent, that having such power and natural leadership must be a blessing.

It had been anything but when Peter had been on his back, ash stinging his skin as his little Laura went limp on top of him. He felt nothing but vile disgust as he shakily pushed her off; Alpha power healing him within seconds but not fast enough to stop the first wave of vomiting. 

Time took the violent bouts of nausea away. 

During the full moon it would linger, always a malevolent whisper at the back of his mind… but when he had people to protect, not necessarily Pack but—but _people_ … it subsided. Whether it was by intimidating an attorney to bow to Lydia’s amendment to an agreement or feeling Stiles’s fingers spasm against his arm as his jaw dropped in the Last Bookstore—he couldn’t hate himself. 

“Okay. Okay. _Okay_ —I will be ignoring you because,” Stiles’s voice cracked, “I’m having a religious experience.” 

“All right.” Peter watched Stiles with casual focus and affection. It didn’t burn and hypnotize like movies and novels promised romance to be. Instead it was a dull ache, like a touch through layers of thick fabric. “Find me when you want to go to the second floor.” 

Stiles made a muffled sound of pleasure, his hand flinging to cover his mouth with a loud _slap_. Peter laughed, his head thrown back. When he regained his composure Stiles was gone. 

Large marble columns cut through the spacious, open first floor and bicycle wheels decorated with light bulbs to make mock-chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The second floor was much smaller, bordering the walls to leave the ceiling as open as possible. 

Gentle plinks from a sitar drifted down from the upper balconies. 

The film and music section was crowded and Peter drifted to the science and psychology shelves. He pulled out a few books, feeling their pages before setting them down.

He found Stiles immediately, his head tilted back dramatically as he leaned back to take in the balconies, spinning in a slow circle. He saw others glance at him briefly, in a city like Los Angeles every glance was fleeting. But still, they _looked_ —they observed his pale skin and long fingers and surely they wondered if he was an actor, maybe he’s in that new play at the Geffen, is he single? 

He wondered if Stiles noticed the way the world seemed to observe him. 

Stiles stopped and caught Peter’s gaze right away. He smiled with a roll of his eyes that had Peter’s ears growing warm. 

He’d be worried about how enamored he was becoming if it wasn’t for the fact that Stiles was more than loud laughter and simpering smiles. Though he had plenty of those to spare that wasn’t what had Peter hovering like a dark creature ready to snatch his prey away once its back was turned. 

Stiles hid himself and Peter had a feeling that the young man wasn’t aware just to what extent he was doing it. Peter wasn’t offended. He had learned patience and the longer Stiles spent time with Peter the more he let pieces of himself slip out into the open. 

Of course, Peter mused darkly, there was a reason people were more honest during pillow talk. The comfort and exhaustion made pulling the truth out of someone sensually easy. Stiles sighed against Peter’s lips, his body relaxed and pliant as they kissed on Peter’s couch. They were lazy, not driven by the fires of society-dictated lust. Peter kissed down Stiles’s pornographically long neck and he was certainly… affected. 

“Mmm.” Stiles’s legs hugged Peter’s hips as he bared his neck so that Peter could go lower. He shivered when Peter sucked a bruise, letting his teeth mark Stiles’s skin. “I should… I should get going—”

He broke off with a moan. Peter smirked against Stiles’s neck. 

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.” Stiles’s pulse tickled Peter’s lips. “Try it again, darling.” 

“Dah— _darling_?” Stiles shuddered with a laugh but Peter knew better because he could smell and feel Stiles’s arousal. Peter sat up, keeping Stiles close as he kissed his bruised lips. “I didn’t think you’d be one for pet names.” 

Neither did Peter. Their next kiss was softer. 

“I’ll make some coffee.” 

Stiles smiled, sweet and dopey.

“All right.” Stiles got up and stretched as Peter padded to the kitchen. He started the coffee and leaned against the counter. The windows were black and it was as quiet as Los Angeles ever got. “Do you read every book on your shelf?” 

Stiles’s voice echoed off the walls and Peter took a moment to marvel at the comfort of it, how Stiles’s scent just _fit_ in a way no other ever had including Lydia. 

“If it’s on the shelf, then yes. If it’s by my bed then I’m getting through it.” Stiles yawned and shuffled into the kitchen, his clothes charmingly rumpled. “Did something catch your eye?” 

Stiles nodded, holding a neon yellow paperback that made Peter’s skin tighten. 

“I _love_ this book. It’s a little sugar-pop for me but it was such a gateway drug for me in high school.” Stiles spoke with tired reverence and Peter’s stomach was clenched in disbelief and perverse delight. “What do you remember about it?”

“Everything.” Stiles raised a doubting brow and smirked. Peter poured them coffee, they both took it black and bitter. “ _Everything_.” 

Stiles sipped his coffee and didn’t wince at the heat. 

“You know, that whole… aspect of neuroscience in advertising, it’s what made me go to American University. Because this,” Stiles pushed the book against Peter’s chest, “is cute but it’s a lot of paraphrasing. Once you delve into the science behind color choice, music, even activation noises to our devices, it makes this looks like grade school reading. It’s why Microsoft had Brian Eno make the first start up noise for their computers, it’s a song we all know even if it’s just a few notes—”

Three pots of coffee and four bathroom breaks later Peter was terrified. He was starting to lose his voice and Stiles sounded ragged himself, but he only spoke faster. Peter terrified because he never wanted Stiles to stop. He saw that the sky was lightening from indigo to grey. 

“—used to get on me about it. Like _objectively_ , I can admire the evil behind something if it’s smart. Reality television targeting teens, that’s _dumb_ evil, you know? Subtle as a brick to the face but,” Stiles sighed dreamily, his eyes bright and his teeth clenched so tight Peter could hear them creak. “I just have to admire the understanding of manipulation in a business sense. Like Google. The image they present, the color scheme—even the changed aspect of our language. Googling something is a term we _use_ now. It’s exactly the kind of company in dystopia eighties movies centered on. Those movies warned us about being watched and a corporation having all our information, but we don’t care.” Stiles shrugged with a smile. “It’s just a part of our home and language.” 

The smile Stiles wore wasn’t practiced and pretty. It was like steel wool against skin, sharp and painful yet Peter had never been more awake. 

Stiles stopped immediately, his Adam’s apple bobbling like someone had physically grabbed his throat to stop his words. His eyes darted to the windows, at the sun that began to rise. 

“Oh shit, oh _shit_ —”

“Stop.” Peter wished he had the mind to be charming as he kissed Stiles, gently taking the coffee cup from his trembling hands. “I liked it. I could talk about this for hours—for as long as you like.” 

The problem with keeping Stiles up late was that Peter was also tired and couldn’t be as eloquent as he needed. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and his palms were clammy. 

“I’m sorry. It makes people uncomfortable. I’m sorry.” 

Peter massaged Stiles’s hands until he opened his eyes. 

“Not me.”

It was a Monday morning and Peter knew he’d be nodding off at his desk and that his voice would be rough no matter how much tea he drank. Stiles searched his eyes for something with anxious precision, a small wrinkle between his brows. 

Peter smoothed his thumb over Stiles’s cheek.

“I honestly can’t think of a better reason to stay up all night.” Before the fire Peter had books and tomes to keep him company. After… he had nothing. Isolation drove most Alphas mad but Peter only felt a dull pull at the center of his chest. It lessened with Lydia, but he couldn’t push certain subjects. Though she never said it Peter knew it made her uneasy. “You don’t have to worry, Stiles.”

Honesty was a double-edged sword and Peter felt the danger of leaving himself so exposed. It was one thing to _speak_ about uncomfortable psychology but it was another to embrace it, love it, _crave_ it. Peter swallowed and Stiles suddenly slumped over, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. 

“It’s why they kicked me out.” Stiles wasn’t smiling anymore, his fingers playing with a frayed thread on his sleeve. “I got into a argument with a—a former friend and I got drunk. When I woke up the next morning I’d sent out my thesis to three departments. I was expelled for educational misconduct.” 

His lips were tight and had a slight quiver to them. Stiles stared down at his hands. With most of the stories Stiles wove together they had clear arcs, sparkling details, and were sprinkled with jokes. Peter could tell that this was a story Stiles didn’t tell often, perhaps ever. 

“Morons.” Stiles laughed thickly and wiped at his eyes. Peter handed him a tissue box and poured more coffee. “Sure, the concept of limited free will or manipulated ‘free’ will is upsetting, but only morons wouldn’t bother to try and learn more. Because once we see the strings that make us dance we can figure out ways to cut them.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, already more composed. 

“I was _drunk_. Let’s not romanticize that fact.” 

“I’m not.” He gathered Stiles’s things and grabbed his keys. Stiles curled up in the passenger’s seat, hugging his bag to his chest. “It’s just a shame your professors let their fear get the better of them.”

Their parting kiss felt like a promise whispered in the dark. Of what, Peter wasn’t sure. 

Lydia snickered at his yawns all day and he slept through lunch. He never felt annoyed, not when Stiles texted him throughout, promising to repay his kindness with sweets. Not that he had to, and Peter hoped that, one day, Stiles wouldn’t feel the need to _repay_ honesty. 

When he finally got home the first thing he saw was Stiles’s jacket draped over the couch. Peter kicked off his shoes and clothes. He stretched and grabbed the jacket before he finally collapsed in bed. 

He slept deeper than he had since he woke from his coma. Each breath he took of Stiles’s scent only served to pull him deeper. 

::::

Ocean winds blew through the trees and made Peter’s skin shiver as he walked onto the MacGuillis grounds. He ignored the hidden stares that followed him from the shadows. The MacGuillis Pack was ancient with centuries of experience and knowledge, and yet they hid from the new Alpha Hale. 

The Alpha Hale who killed his niece and inherited her legacy of a burned and broken Pack. 

_“I heard he’s innocent,”_ very few said. _“I heard he got her by surprise, that’s the only way a Beta would ever overpower an Alpha,”_ most said. 

_“He’s alone. His nephew won’t go near him.”_

Everyone got the last one right. 

“How was your trip out here, Peter? I trust the car we provided was to your liking.” It was the newest BMW series with all the amenities. Peter forced himself not to smile since he wasn’t sure how it would look on his face. Miriam waved him inside to the main house. It was made of old oak with an even older smell. “I’ve got a fine stew waiting for you.”

Peter took off his shoes in the foyer and followed the Alpha of the Americas. No one was visible, once more, but Peter knew they were there, all wary of his presence. 

He sat at a long table and outside he could see the trees swaying in the summer winds. 

“Eat.” Miriam placed a ceramic bowl in front of him. Peter had time to see Miriam’s initials carved onto the bottom of it before she poured the stew. “You look more like a ghost than a wolf.” 

_I don’t give a shit about what you think I look like._ Peter gripped his spoon tightly. Right now Laura was being buried on the family plot courtesy of the Tribunal. He knew Miriam’s invitation was not one of sympathy or courtesy, but damage control. 

“This is wonderful.” Peter swallowed a lump of greasy beef. “Thank you.”

He only finished half. She moved him to a sunroom right as rain began to pour. She gave him a blanket and the Hale records and tomes before she left him alone for several hours. The MacGuillis Pack moved around him, avoiding the sunroom, but at least their presence returned. 

He only focused on the recent entries of the records. It was well after midnight before Miriam returned. She sat across from him and the moonlight made her white hair bright silver as her eyes bled red in the dark. Peter didn’t shy away from her gaze. 

_She looks at me like we’re equals,_ Peter realized with a sickening lurch. 

“You’ve missed a lot since you’ve been away.” 

Peter straightened. 

“Once it was all said and done… Derek and L-Laura, they thought it was me?”

Miriam tilted her head to the side. 

“Well, think of it from their perspective. You were conveniently away on an errand for me, and that just-so-happened to fall on the day when all the Hales from all reaches of the world were gathered at your sister’s house. Then you return and are found barely alive clinging to your sister’s dead body. You can see how that—”

Peter snarled, his claws pushing through and it _hurt_. Alpha MacGuillis didn’t so much as flinch. 

“I am—I was Talia’s _Second_. I would—I could never—”

“I know.” She didn’t sound soothing. She sounded like she was reading from a script she didn’t believe in. “That’s why we denied the first in-Pack execution requested by Laura.” 

Peter blinked the red out of his eyes. 

“First?” 

“Yes. Derek requested an appeal after Laura died.” 

“And you didn’t grant it?” Miriam shook her head and Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “Why _not_?” 

“I knew Talia. I know you.” Miriam held her head up high. “I don’t have people killed because it’s an easier choice than leaving them to live.” 

Peter clutched the Hale tomes. 

“I know who did it.” Peter growled, his teeth cutting his lips. He didn’t know how to speak around his new Alpha fangs. “I saw her, it was Kate Argent—”

Miriam moved in a flash, her eyes fiery and she froze Peter in place as she clamped her hand over his mouth. The rain thundered around them, enough to drown out Peter’s racing heart from the rest of the MacGuillis Pack. Her claws pressed against his neck as she held him still. 

“I will give you thirty seconds to get yourself under control. We’ll go to my office. It’s soundproofed. If what you say is true and the Argents have gone against their treaty, I won’t want to cause panic until it’s absolutely necessary.” 

Peter nodded. They went straight away and when the door closed behind them Peter let his claws back out. Peter waited for Miriam to gather her things until she was ready with pen and paper. 

“I know it was her. I’ve seen her before, during the treaty resigns, I _remember_.”

The clock ticked loudly on the wall. Peter didn’t feel much to the matter of day-to-day, but he did feel bloodlust for Kate Argent. If there was one thing he wanted, if it was only _one_ thing, it was Kate Argent’s last breaths in pieces between his teeth. 

Miriam’s red eyes were bright. 

“If we’re to do anything it needs to be careful. No one can know. No other wolves or else eighty years of peace are gone.” Peter heaved his breaths. Miriam looked away, her eyes shining. “Derek… won’t help you. He still thinks you’re guilty.”

“ _Everyone_ thinks I’m guilty.”

Miriam sniffed, her shoulders tight. When she locked eyes with Peter he felt a cold anger, as old and sturdy as a glacier. 

“Knowing you’re innocent will have to be enough, Peter, in order for any kind of justice to be carried out. Do you understand?” 

He understood. 

Years and years later Lydia hit the table with her hand and laughed. Stiles preened as Lydia adjusted her dress. Peter sat back and stretched, Lydia on one side and Stiles on the other. 

“It’s good to know I still got the comedic timing down.” Stiles smiled with a wink. “But, I must excuse myself or my bladder will burst and talk about _embarrassing._ ” 

Lydia giggled and Stiles pushed free from the table. Lydia watched him with a smile and she let out a long exhale. 

“I see what you mean.” Lydia took a sip of whiskey sour. “He’s one of those reluctant entertainers. It’s not what he wants to _be_ , but he’s good. My stomach hurts. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.” 

Neither did Peter. He found it hard to keep his balance, all the laughter and the taste of whiskey on his tongue. He expected the years of waiting for Kate to return and strike would be a grey, tunneling purgatory. And yet… he had Lydia, ready and eager to fight with him and—

He had Stiles, a strange sort of jester with a painted on smile and endless educated philosophy in his back pocket. _He will be my reward,_ Peter decided, _for a job well done._

“He’s definitely got an endless amount of stories.” Peter sighed as the DJ brought up another track, a new beat making the people pulse on the dance floor. “I like him.” 

Lydia squeezed Peter’s arm. 

“I like him too.” She motioned to the waitress for another whiskey sour. “And not that you need an ego boost, but he likes you.”

Of course Peter knew, but he couldn’t help but smile and raise an eyebrow. 

“Care to share your insight?”

“Nah.” Lydia waved at Stiles from across the room. “I’ll keep it for myself, thanks. But I’ll get the check so you two sweethearts can be on your way.”

Stiles slid back to the table. 

“This place is… well, it fits that seems like it fell out of a movie. What kind of club needs a password?”

“The fun kind. But I’m such an old lady I’ve got to tuck in. Check’s on me.” She winked and Stiles blushed. “You two have a great night.” 

Iced lemon teacake waited for them back at Peter’s. Stiles ate a slice. 

“Lydia’s great. You’re lucky to have a friend like that.”

“She liked you too.” 

Stiles tasted like citrus and sugar when Peter kissed him before he went to make coffee. They had a comfortable few months under their belt. It was nice, so _nice_. Peter let the heat of the coffee pot burn his fingers. His phone buzzed but before he could reach it soft lips pressed to the back of his neck. 

“Hey.” Slender fingers dragged down Peter’s arms. “I, uh—I’ve been thinking.” Peter shivered at Stiles’s hot breath against his neck. A moan was torn from Peter’s throat once Stiles added his tongue into the. “I’d like to go further. If that’s okay.”

Peter could feel Stiles’s heart racing against his back. Peter turned and they were so close they were sharing the same air. 

“Are you sure—?” 

Stiles squeezed Peter’s erection and when he kissed him it was biting, hot, and it made Peter _want._

Oh… how he _wanted._

::::

Stiles made sure not to go to Miriam until he had a low fever a rattling cough. Derek had been crawling up the walls so Stiles wasn’t surprised when Miriam crumpled immediately. 

“Oh, _sweetheart_ , come in, I’ll make you some tea.” 

Stiles stepped over the archway, his heartbeat even like a metronome. Miriam was a matriarch, but when it came to humans she brushed off most of their nuances. Stiles figured if he had supernatural abilities he’d be just as guilty. 

“I’m going to move in with my aunt down in California.” Stiles coughed into a napkin. “I think the stress of moving is… taking a toll on me.” He peered over at some boxes. “Doing some cleaning?” 

Miriam waved them off with a sigh. 

“Yes. Such an annoyance. I’m making all my records digital, it’s easier to manage.” 

“I could help.” Stiles had sweat sticking to the back of his neck and his eyes were glassy. He watched how Miriam kept close to him, kept touching him. “I’m great with computers.” 

It took him less than twenty minutes to get what he needed. He had records of a three-week stay from a few years ago accompanied with a massive money transfer of two million dollars from Peter Hale to Alpha MacGuillis. The next morning, with Derek pushing Stiles to keep hydrated and Allison loading their bags into the car, they began the trip to California. 

It felt like a lifetime ago.

The smell of rubber still stung his nose and the taste of Peter’s mouth lingered on his tongue. He was mobbed the moment he stepped back into the apartment after dinner at Badmaash.

“Jesus, we saw your heartbeat vanish and we thought the worst—”

“I never should have agreed to send you in, you’re too young and he’s too—”

“ _Guys_.” Stiles’s voice wavered. “It’s good. He didn’t see you. I got the watch. We’re good, we didn’t get caught. I just... I need a hug. You guys can get me one of those right— _whoa_!” 

He was pulled into the tightest embrace he’d ever been given. He was pretty sure his ribs cracked. Stiles could barely breathe and he finally let himself shudder. Even if he fell, even if his legs gave out, he knew Derek and Allison would hold him up. They didn’t need to say how scared they’d been and how close they’d come to having to commit the messiest extraction on their hands. 

When Stiles’s feet touched the ground he wiped at his wet face. 

“All right, I’m gonna,” he hiccuped, “I’m gonna clean myself up. And then we’re going to cuddle all night, good?”

Allison laughed and Derek nodded like Stiles had given him an order. Stiles pushed his way into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed some water onto his face and sat down on the toilet. His body shook and jerked as adrenalin and horror worked through his system. 

Stiles had kissed and been kissed before. It had been nothing to write home about. 

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the unmasked arousal at Sex and Death, a game Stiles loved to play and hadn’t in such a _long_ time. 

He didn’t know what was worse, the fact that Stiles wasn’t sick to his stomach, or that every time he thought back to that kiss his dick throbbed. 

He splashed water onto his face, and kept splashing until he couldn’t feel anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY another chapter. I'm in the process of moving apartments and work has been crazy and that's why it's taken so long. I hope you like the update, please let me know if you like or don't. I love to hear from you!
> 
> EDIT: The book Stiles is talking about is Buyology: The Truth and Lies Behind What We Buy by Martin Lindstrom.


	6. Lies of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Glasses would soften the rough edges. The thicker frames the better.” Stiles gestured vaguely into the air, his eyelids drooping slightly with the hour and alcohol. “I mean, I can’t change the uniform, but… glasses, a slouched cardigan in a pale warm color, and dark jeans with a relaxed shoe—like keds or Doc Martens. Stripped and minimal makeup and,” he wiggled his fingers with a silent _wow_ , “Voila. A perfect approachable person.”

The divorce lawyer that Natalie Martin hired was named Pika Awasthi and she was _beautiful_. Lydia was only thirteen but she knew true beauty when she saw Miss Awasthi stride into their home with steel eyes and a gentle smile. She didn’t look at Lydia like she was just a dumb little girl, someone to coo at and brush off. 

Her father looked at her like that… which is why Lydia didn’t wait for Miss Awasthi to unclasp her briefcase. 

“I want to live with my mother.”

Miss Awasthi regarded Lydia closely. Lydia tilted her chin up. She’d worn her hair down and the pale blue dress she reserved for holiday parties. Miss Awasthi took a seat at their dining room table across from Lydia. 

“This is a very important decision, Lydia. It will affect you for the rest of your young life. You don’t have to make a choice now. We still have a while to travel during this proceeding.” 

“I’m aware.” Her mother had set out coffee, tea, and milk for them and pressed a kiss to Lydia’s forehead before she’d left moments before Miss Awasthi’s arrival. Her house, which was not small or large, was suddenly endless in its emptiness. “I’m certain, Miss Awasthi.” Lydia preened inwardly when Miss Awasthi’s eyes widened at the correct pronunciation of her name. “The sooner I tell you then the sooner this can be over.” 

Her mother and father were outside on the lawn; Lydia could vaguely see them through the window just over Miss Awasthi’s shoulder. Their attorney exhaled quietly and poured herself a cup of tea. 

“You’re very mature for your age.”

When most adults said that dreaded compliment it felt like she was getting a reward for a party trick. Miss Awasthi was one of the rare cases where it sounded genuine. Lydia drank milk and Miss Awasthi let her tea cool as she brought out a voice recorder. 

“I will need you to describe the reasoning behind your decision. This will help your case with the judge whether to grant your mother a full or partial custody.”

She clicked it and the light on the side glowed red. 

“My father…” Lydia took a steady breath. “My father discourages me from studying hard. He wants me to act stupid because it makes the boys in my class more comfortable around me. My mother has never stopped me from expressing who I am and never punished me for getting excellent grades. This is why I want to live with her.” 

Miss Awasthi’s steely eyes became iridescent when Lydia made a motion to stop the recording as tears rolled down her cheeks. Lydia covered her eyes with her hands and she heard Awasthi’s chair squeak just before soft fingers ran through her hair. 

“I-I just don’t want my mother to be sad anymore.” 

“She won’t be.” Miss Awasthi’s voice was deep and dark like jagged steel on the ocean floor. “I promise.” 

Divorce attorneys didn’t typically inspire most would-be lawyers but it was at that moment that Lydia knew what she was meant to be. 

::::

Sixteen years later, Lydia stepped out of her Uber and turned to see all of Los Angeles spread out before her. She took a deep breath and turned to walk through the massive entranceway to Yamashiro. 

“Hi.” Lydia smiled at the hostess. “I have a reservation for two under Martin.”

She was fifteen minutes early but she didn’t mind waiting. She specifically requested a table in the inner part of the building tucked away by the koi pond and zen gardens. If she wanted a view like most of the other patrons Peter would only make shallow pleasantries with her and then her earlier confrontation with him would have been for nothing. 

“Your guest has already arrived, Miss Martin.” The hostess missed Lydia’s shocked look. “Please follow me.”

The hostess gently moved a screen aside to expose the center dining area. Peter sat at their table and read over the menu. He didn’t wave or so much as say hello when the hostess seated Lydia. Once she was gone Lydia cleared her throat. 

“You’re early.” 

Peter glanced at Lydia with a raised brow. 

“So are you.” He straightened and relaxed his posture though Lydia was certain the motion was practiced and not organic. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. You’re quite handsome yourself but you didn’t need me to tell you that.” 

Lydia liked their firm and she trusted their president’s judgment when it came to attorneys. After all, he made her partner at twenty-nine. Everyone came from a mixture of backgrounds and made it through the insane workload. Peter Hale had been at the firm for several years. Bruce must have seen something in him, though not as deeply as Lydia had. 

“I’m sorry if I scared you this morning.” Peter glared up from his menu sharply. Lydia felt her cheeks get hot. “I’m impatient when I find a person truly intriguing. I let it get the better of me. You must have been put on the spot.”

Lydia enjoyed intimidation but not pure fear. Earlier that morning, Peter had been frightened to the point of his claws shooting forward. Peter’s fingers were back to their normal manicured selves and he sighed. 

“I was worried about damage control and how many bodies I’d be leaving behind if I had to fight my way out.” Lydia couldn’t hide her flinch and Peter sneered. “You didn’t think of that possibility? Lydia, you confronted a creature that most believe to be _fictional_ and you just brazenly brought it up. You have no idea what it means to _hide_.” 

He cut himself off when the waitress approached. Lydia summoned a dazzling smile. 

“Can we have some edamame to start as well as the cucumber sake?” 

“Of course.” 

The waitress left and Peter flipped idly through his menu. 

“I can’t get drunk. The sake won’t have any effect on me.”

Peter tossed it out as a distraction to see if Lydia would bite down on all the questions the statement fed. Instead she rolled her eyes. 

“Well _I_ can and it tastes fantastic. You have taste buds, don’t you?” Peter glared at her. “You’ll like it.”

“I’m sure.” 

Lydia didn’t cower at the scathing tone. Peter did look dashing in his suit but its dark colors accentuated his sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones. He sat with his back to the wall and he periodically checked the visible exits. 

Peter had one foot out the door at all times, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Lydia had done her research; she knew Peter’s life had been filled with terrible tragedy. It was remarkable how far he’d come. 

She liked the firm. She wanted Peter to like it too. 

“Get whatever you want.” Lydia broke the silence as their waitress approached with their appetizers and drinks. “The bill is on me. I really am sorry about this morning.” 

Peter waited until the waitress was gone before he took a sip of the sake. It was Lydia’s favorite, served chilled and it ran smooth down the tongue. His eyes widened and when his posture slackened Lydia believed it. 

“This is very good.”

Lydia winked. 

“I know.”

She kept the sake coming and Peter had steak and crab cakes. Lydia had sushi and was generous enough with the wasabi to have Peter raise his eyebrows. 

On the third bottle of sake and halfway through dessert, Lydia watched their waiter leave. 

“I swear we’ve had four waiters. Do they just not like us?”

“They think we’re a couple about to break up.” Lydia scoffed but then Peter tapped his ears. _Oh_. “They’ve been taking bets all night as to whether or not we break up before we get the bill.” 

He grinned and Lydia returned it immediately. He was flushed and was less hollow. It was a good look on him. 

They walked out arm-in-arm much to the staff’s disappointment. The night air had no effect on Lydia, her entire body pleasantly numb as she pulled Peter to the path where they could get closer to the view from the mountaintop. 

“Come on. If you’ve never been here before you have to see this!”

Yamashiro was beautiful at night. Up in the Hollywood Hills, at the very top, they could see everything: the lights of the Roosevelt, Downtown, and Culver City. Lydia closed her eyes and imagined that she could hear the ocean waves crashing along the beaches in Santa Monica and Venice. 

“I love it here.” Lydia jumped when Peter spoke quietly next to her. “It’s not a friendly city, but I’m not a friendly man.” He smiled and Lydia wondered if her stupidly daring move this morning had actually _worked_. “Did you drive here?” 

“No, I took an Uber.” 

“I’ll drive you home, if you’d like.”

“Sure.” 

Peter helped her back to the valet and squeezed her hand. 

“Plus, it will drive the staff crazy.” 

Lydia threw her head back and laughed. He laughed with her in uneven bursts, like he’d forgotten how. 

She woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and makeup smeared on her pillow. A tall glass of water rested by her bed as well as a bottle of Advil. 

Her phone had a new text.

_Next dinner is on me. Eat something greasy; I hear that helps with hangovers, not that I’ve ever had one._

Lydia flopped back onto her pillow and smiled. 

“Asshole.” 

::::

Stiles was unexpected. 

Not necessarily _bad_ , but unexpected. Lydia had to concentrate to not let the laughter intoxicate her further as the three of them giggled into their drinks. Stiles made it difficult to catch her breath because whenever there was a chance of a lull he’d send them into another laughing fit. 

If Peter’s descriptions of Stiles were true, than what had Lydia gasping for breath was a farce. The Stiles Peter described was a chatterbox that would lapse into quiet yet honest reflections when he was tired. 

Stiles kept Lydia talking. If he weren’t laughing through his questions it would have been an interrogation. It wasn’t until he excused himself to use the bathroom that she realized her voice was hoarse and that he’d barely touched his whiskey. 

_Reluctant entertainer_ , that’s what she called him. He said very little about himself that wasn’t a punch line, but Lydia knew that if she were to describe the night she’d have nothing negative to say.

They lingered by their cars even though they were meant to depart after Lydia settled the tab. Stiles waggled his eyebrows and leaned against Peter’s red Pagoda. 

“I told Erica to get fake glasses.”

Peter laughed, hearty and full. It stunned Lydia to think of how far he’d come in just a few years. As he filled out and learned to live outside revenge, Peter still had expectations of isolation and living with the hatred that his name brought from his own kind. If Lydia were honest, she agreed with him—and they both never thought that Peter would add balancing a monogamous relationship with a human to his routine.

He had his arm draped around Stiles’s shoulders while Stiles wore Peter’s jacket. Peter had a crooked smile that was bright enough to lift the years off his face. 

“Why on Earth would Erica need fake glasses?”

“She said she wanted to be more approachable.” Stiles grinned and leaned against Peter. “She thinks she intimidates customers. I mean she _does_ , especially if they start giving us a hard time, but that’s part of her charm, you know?”

Peter snorted and shared an amused glance with Lydia. She nodded. 

“I’ve always thought she had a certain appeal.”

Stiles winked. 

“That she does.” 

“What does this have to do with fake glasses?”

Peter _purred_ in a voice that Lydia had never heard before. Stiles cleared his throat as his cheeks and ears flushed pink. 

“Glasses would soften the rough edges. The thicker frames the better.” Stiles gestured vaguely into the air, his eyelids drooping slightly with the hour and alcohol. “I mean, I can’t change the uniform, but… glasses, a slouched cardigan in a pale warm color, and dark jeans with a relaxed shoe—like keds or Doc Martens. Stripped and minimal makeup and,” he wiggled his fingers with a silent _wow_ , “Voila. A perfect approachable person.” 

Lydia didn’t think about it until she was driving home. She mulled over Stiles’s words and the night air chilled her skin. 

_A perfect approachable person._

It wasn’t merely an amusing anecdote. Lydia pulled into her driveway and remained in her car after she turned it off. While Stiles hadn’t even broached his time at American University Lydia knew, thanks to Peter, that he’d majored in neuroscience and psychology. Stiles was tired and tipsy—and he was telling the truth. 

Lydia’s hands shook as she let herself into her house. She had the feeling she’d been looking at Stiles all wrong. She didn’t check to see what time it was on the East Coast before she called her old friend Alan Deaton—a former professor and current head of Law at American University. 

_“Do you have any idea what time it is?”_

“No. Alan, I need a favor.” Lydia couldn’t remember what Stiles had been wearing, only that it had been _nice_. She couldn’t remember what he said about himself— _if he said anything about himself._ “My dear friend is dating a former student of American University.” 

She heard Deaton shuffle around with muttered curses. She toed off her shoes and slipped out of her dress as Deaton yawned. 

_“A law student?”_

“No, neuroscience.” 

_“Neuro—Lydia, that’s nowhere near my department.”_

“I know—but you’re still on the Disciplinary Committee, correct?” 

_“Yes… Lydia, what is this about?”_

She tugged at her hair and struggled to remember the details of the night. It blurred together as a dismissive cloud of _safe and amusing_.

“My friend is seeing a student that was expelled. His name is Stiles Stilinski. As far as I know the reason for his expulsion was labeled _educational misconduct._ I just wanted to follow up on it.” 

Deaton hummed low in his throat. 

_“Doesn’t sound familiar. Give me a minute, I’ll turn on my computer.”_ Lydia’s windows were black and the winds howled outside. She sat on her bed and opened her laptop. Sure enough she had a new friend request from Stiles. She accepted. _“Do you have any details? Educational misconduct covers a lot of bases.”_

Lydia worried her lower lip hard enough that she’d need to use ointment the next morning. 

“He got drunk and sent his thesis to several departments.” 

Deaton chuckled. 

_“Must have been a hell of a thesis to get him kicked out. Let’s take a look… huh. It’s not giving me access. His file is locked.”_

Lydia felt a chill wriggle down her spine. 

“Is that bad?”

_“Not necessarily. If he wrote something heinous we’d keep it accessible as an example. It’s just… unexpected.”_

Unexpected. 

Lydia scrolled through Stiles’s feed, his Instagram, everything she could get her hands on. He took a lot of selfies at the coffee shops, anything he seemed to think was funny, and he favored filters that enhanced the color blue. 

His most recent addition to his Instagram was a picture of himself but with Peter and Lydia in the background, Peter unaware as he discussed something with Lydia. The caption read: Friendly faces. 

“Calm down.” 

Lydia spoke aloud, willing for her heart to listen. She rubbed her eyes and went to the bathroom to wash her face and ground herself with cold water. Stiles might have a few secrets but that was hardly news. 

_Besides,_ Lydia thought as she exfoliated her face, _Peter’s a werewolf. He can hear and smell any lie from a mile away. He can handle a cake decorator with relentless punch lines._

Still, she followed him on Instagram. To know him better, maybe, to keep an eye on him, definitely. 

To expect the unexpected. 

::::

It was the day before the full moon and Lydia went to the Bakery. The smell of sugar bowled her over. The Bakery Betas paid her no mind until Stiles looked up from the cupcakes he was decorating.

“Lydia!” Stiles smiled and he quickly put down his piping bags and pulled her into a hug despite the small gate dividing them. “How are you doing? What can I get for you?”

The Betas watched her over Stiles’s slender shoulders. She leaned against the gate. 

“Something light. Peter is very sick.” 

“Oh no!” Stiles’s face fell. “Is it bad? I-I have four hours left in my shift but—”

“Please,” Lydia waved her hand, “don’t worry yourself. He doesn’t want to get you sick. But he said to, I quote, _articulate my most honest and salacious affections._ ” 

Stiles laughed and shook his head. 

“What a dramatic weirdo. I’ll put something together for him, just give me a second.” He moved quickly, spinning on his heel for a box and wax paper before turning back to the display. Lydia got out her wallet as Stiles the box taped it shut. He wrote out a note in sharpie on the back of one of their menus in loopy, scrawled print. “I hope he feels better. And um… let him know I have a pretty strong immune system. I’m not afraid of germs.”

“Will do.” She kissed his cheek. “Let’s get drinks sometime.” 

“Of course.” Stiles grinned. “Give me a time and a place. I’ll be there.”

Peter grimaced on his floor, his skin sticky-shiny with sweat. Lydia placed the sweets on the ground and pulled him into a sitting position. 

“Jesus, Peter—we need to get driving.” Lydia grimaced at his shirt and loose pants, at the patches of sweat that bled through. “We didn’t get to try the Korean sheet masks I got.”

“Next time.” His speech slurred and tripped over his elongated teeth. He pushed his face against her heck and inhaled. “How was Stiles?” 

Lydia managed to grab their go-bags on the way out. Peter was heavy and she vowed to renew her gym membership was soon as they returned. 

“He was fine. He wrote you a note. If you’re good I’ll let you read it on the drive over.”

Peter pinched her side and she almost dropped him. She only needed to take one additional trip back into the house before they were tearing down the highway. Peter clutched Stiles’s note in his clawed hands. 

“When this is all done I want to tell him.”

Lydia fiddled with the radio; the only station available was a bluegrass channel. 

“Tell what to whom, Peter?” 

“Stiles.” Lydia tightened her trip on the steering wheel and she knew her heartbeat betrayed her. Peter glanced up at her. “I thought you liked him.”

“I do. It’s just… a risk, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” Peter’s head fell back and the radio cut out, which meant they were on the final leg of their trip. “If I survive Kate nothing else would compare. The worst has already happened to me. There’s nothing Stiles could do that would come close to—”

An animalistic whine pushed past his lips. Lydia pulled over and sent dust flying as she turned the car off and plunged them into darkness. Her eyes struggled to adjust and Peter’s shape began to change. He opened his door and fell to the ground. Lydia got out, still unable to see. She kept her hands on the hot metal and slowly shuffled around to the other side. 

“My sister,” Peter wheezed out from somewhere on the ground, “said that love is finding someone who is an exception to all the rules you’ve built around yourself.” He wretched out a sour laugh as wet _pops_ and _snaps_ filled the air. “She said that being in love was trusting the other person not to kill you first. You’re each other’s greatest weakness and greatest strength, and you trusted them not to pull the trigger, the same trust that they had in you.” 

His voice became more snarl than human and Lydia almost didn’t catch his final thought. 

“I didn’t believe in love for myself… but Lydia, I think I’m starting to.” 

Lydia slid down to the sandy ground just as a loud growl permeated the air. Peter pushed his snout against her neck. 

“Okay.” Her throat was tight and she tilted her head back to give Peter more room. She carded her fingers through his fur. “I’ll start brainstorming. Once you’re ready we’ll get Stiles on board. I’ll start looking into romantic getaways and flower bouquets.” He huffed, hot breath washing over her skin. Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Get running, Alpha. I’ll be here.” 

Darkness engulfed her and she was alone, staring up at the moon. 

Love. 

Lydia would laugh at the _love_ that so many people yearned for, an untouchable idea created within film and television. She knew people who believed in that kind of love, the one-true-love-lobotomy that would make everything better _God-just-make-life-better_. Or there was the love through sacrifice where partners kept track of how much they’d given up for the other in an endless thesis of how deep their commitment went. 

Lydia had a hard time believing in romantic love. But when Peter described it… 

It was waking Stiles up with a kiss to his shoulder only for Stiles to make a monstrous, guttural noise and bury his head under the pillow with a smile. It was texts that made Peter smile throughout the day. It was how Peter felt sharper, more real when he was swallowing Stiles’s moans and sucking bruises down his neck. 

_“He doesn’t make me want to be better. He makes me feel like I already am better.”_

Lydia was happy for him. It was a strange tasting happy, bitter and stinging against her tongue but vibrant, bright, and a nostalgic reminder that she was getting older. 

She looked up florists on her iPad and read through Yelp reviews. Stiles favored daffodils. It would be best to get the minor details out of the way before she strategized how to break the news that werewolves existed. Not only that, but that he was dating an Alpha pariah. 

The sky bled from indigo to rose gold. 

In the distance, a mere spot on the horizon, Lydia could see Peter making his way back to her. She yawned, her jaw popped, and her phone vibrated. She glanced down to see Jackson’s name flashing at her. 

“Jackson?” Lydia winced at her sleep-scratchy voice. “What’s going on—?”

_“He’s dead, my rookie who was keeping an eye on Argent is **dead** , Lydia.”_ Lydia had never been so cold in her life despite the desert sun beating down on her. She made a noise; wheezing, broken, and far away Peter began to run. _“He was beheaded, Lyds, she—she’s coming for you—”_

Lydia felt clammy and grey. Peter gently took the phone out of her hands. He’d heard it all and she couldn’t stop shaking. 

“We have to go, Lydia.”

She nodded, swallowed the terror and gripped the door tight. Peter yanked his clothes on and got into the driver’s seat, not bothering with his shoes. It wasn’t even seven in the morning but Lydia had never been more awake. Jackson was still on the phone, waiting until Lydia could listen to the rest. 

_“We just found him but it looks like he was killed eighteen hours ago. She could be by you already. Be careful.”_

She felt small, like she was a thirteen-year-old girl in her blue holiday dress. Except instead of facing her parents’ divorce she stood before a mountainous evil that cast its shadow over her. Had they been naïve in thinking they were ready for her?

“No.” Peter growled, the world a blur as they streaked down the highway. “We got this, Lydia. We’ll stop and get gas, go home, and we’ll find her.” His fangs cut against his lips, blood staining his vows. “If you don’t want to stay—”

“Fuck that.”

Lydia’s red hair whipped in the sun and fire roared through the ice that had overtaken her. She swallowed and met Peter’s gaze. 

She’d made him a grim promise years ago to see it through. 

They screeched down Peter’s street in the early afternoon and the neighborhood was quiet and idyllic as it always had been. Lydia kept her eyes peeled on the surrounding houses and Peter got out. 

“We only need fifteen minutes, in and out, and then we’ll—”

He stopped talking and Lydia turned. Peter stood at his walkway. His front door was wide open. 

“Peter—”

He held up his hand and Lydia bit her lips. He stood still and scented the air and mouthed _nothing off_ before he stepped forward. The kitchen was spotless, the hallway as well, and then the living room…

The bookshelf hung open and exposed Peter’s secret office. Peter moved in staccato bursts that made him stumble as he slid on Kate’s photos and articles that had been taken off of the walls. 

“Nothing smells off?” Peter shook his head. “How is that possible? Someone was _here_. Their scent must be all over the place!” 

Lydia clenched her fists and turned, needing to keep moving. She went to gather the necessities when she noticed a photo of Kate she’d been standing on. She picked it up. Peter peered over her shoulder to read the loopy, scrawled print across Kate’s face in black sharpie. 

_She’s here._

::::

Meditation had been one of the many avenues of grief counseling that John had pursued. He couldn’t grasp it, too raw from the loss of Claudia that the command to _think of nothing_ was laughable. After three frustrating sessions the instructor pulled John to the side and came up with a solution. 

_“This is a Tibetan singing bowl.”_ John couldn’t remember the instructor’s face but he knew the gold intricate designs on the bowl and the feel of the thick mallet inside. _“This might work for you. Strike this bowl and concentrate on the sound. Only strike it again when you can no longer hear it singing to you.”_

Surprisingly the singing bowl worked. John would be able to hold onto the note longer with each strike until he got to the tranquil space, a silent hum that hovered between calming and terrifying. 

John hadn’t thought about the singing bowl in years, but suddenly it was _all_ he could think about as Scott McCall stared at him. He was frozen in his kitchen and he couldn’t hear anything except for that haunting bell in the air. It roared in his ears as Scott’s face twisted, his mouth pulling down into an ugly frown. 

Even as Scott yelled, his eyes welling with unshed tears that broke John’s heart, all he heard was the bowl ringing, ringing, and ringing until the front door slammed and Scott was gone. 

Scott had stopped by for coffee and he’d been bubbling with stories about Kira, the vet, and his _life_ that it had just slipped out between sips of coffee. It was so quick; John didn’t notice what he’d said at first until Scott went silent. Then it came back, too late to recall, too late to do anything but mull over the words that John had spoken like he was talking about the weather. 

He grabbed his coat and keys and at first he was going after Scott… but along the way he abandoned that plan in favor for the highway until he arrived at the airport. 

_“Time off?”_ Parrish was understandably shocked. John never took vacations or sick days. The less time he spent at home the better. _“Is everything all right, Sheriff?”_

“Everything is fine,” John lied as he walked down to security. “Just need some time away, shouldn’t be more than a few days. Call me if you need anything.” 

He hung up just as Mellissa called. He ignored it as well as the voicemail that followed. 

“Do you have any carry-ons?” 

The TSA agent looked John up and down. John was pulled for additional searching and he was just able to make it to the last flight to DC. His saliva tasted like copper and he remembered that Claudia used to say that everything could be fixed with a heartfelt apology, that deep in their hearts people would forgive. 

Would she still say that if she saw him at that moment, cramped up against the window with his knuckles white on his knees? Would she have the same conviction if she knew that this would be the first time John had visited Stiles in almost four years? What would she have done if she’d been with John and Scott in their kitchen and she heard what John had said? 

The plane rattled as it took off, the speed pinning John against the seat. He closed his eyes and desperately reached for the endless tone and comfort of the singing bowl, but all he found was the memory of his own voice. 

_**“You’re like the son I never had.”** _

When Stiles was young he loved parent teacher conferences. He’d be bouncing off the walls all night until John and Claudia told him every detail. After she died his enthusiasm lessened each year until it was gone by the time he was a teenager. 

_“Mr. Stilinski, have you thought of giving your son an aptitude test?”_

In Stiles’s sophomore year John barely made it in time to catch the last teacher available, Chris Chamberlin who taught physics. John had been out of breath so it took him a moment to register the question. 

_“Why, did something happen? Did he—?”_

_“No, no. Stiles is great.”_ Chamberlin’s eyes narrowed for a millisecond and John knew he wanted to why John’s assumption had immediately been negative. _“I mean, he’s a bit of a cut-up, but I like that in a student. Gives them dimension. What I meant is, do you have a recent IQ measurement? Look at this.”_

Chamberlin handed John a test of various optical illusions, multicolored shapes and lines asking to find a pattern or difference. John frowned, his mouth tight because he wasn’t sure what he was looking for besides a perfect score. Chamberlin swallowed loudly. 

_“When I asked him how he knew all the answers he said it was because everyone lies. He’s not much of a physicist, Mr. Stilinski, but I think he’d exceed in psychology, maybe even neuroscience.”_

By the time John got home Stiles’s door was closed and the lights were off. The next morning Stiles didn’t ask about the conference and John didn’t offer any details. He wondered if that was the start of it, when he watched his son move around John like he was a ghost and not his father, a quiet, _“Have a good day,”_ his signature departure. 

Stiles acing tests and seeing through bullshit was nothing new… but the description of him being a cut-up, laughing and joking… that chilled John to the bone. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard Stiles laugh that wasn’t bitingly sarcastic. 

“Excuse me, can I help you sir?”

John stood outside of Stiles’s apartment building, an old complex with a black gate. An older woman squinted at him. 

“Sorry, I was just here to surprise my son, but my phone died.” John tried not to think of how many lies he told in the past eight hours. “I’m John Stilinski.”

“Oh!” Her suspicion dissipated and she opened the gate to shake his hand. “I’m Rosa, the manager. I _love_ Stiles, I can see him in you. You two have the same smile.” Rosa had streaks of grey in her hair and deep wrinkles cut across her tanned face. “He’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s traveling.” 

“I see…” 

“Come in.” Rosa stepped to the side and soon they were in her cozy apartment. She had worn furniture and hand-knitted blankets draped over the couch. She made tea and the kitchen tiles were faded blue and yellow. “I’ll get his post cards.” 

Stiles lived in the apartment above Rosa and was a lovely neighbor. He had dinner with her on Sundays. She gave him recipes when he said he’d be traveling for a while. Despite being gone for almost a year he paid his rent on time via wire transfers. 

His handwriting was the same loopy scrawl John had learned to decipher. He was in Los Angeles and had plenty of stories to tell Rosa about restaurants and odd tucked away places he found. 

“I have three daughters.” Rosa smiled as she led John out an hour later. “If they ever have a son I would hope for one like yours, Mr. Stilinski.”

He went to American University next. 

His son was in Los Angeles but kept his apartment in DC, which meant he was making a comfortable amount of money, maybe even more than John. He wasn’t sure about the statistics for starting salaries for college dropouts, but he didn’t think it was high. 

Walking across campus felt odd. He remembered taking Stiles to orientation and gaping at the clean, pristine buildings. It was overwhelming but Stiles hadn’t batted an eye at the sparkling cylindrical tower that was the Neuroscience Center. 

“I’m sorry sir, what do you need?” 

John kept his breathing even as he eyed the receptionist. 

“My son used to go here but he dropped out. I just wanted to follow up to see if there is some kind of Alumni network he could access for jobs.” 

The receptionist frowned. 

“Take a seat over there,” She pointed to a row of uncomfortable chairs, “and you’ll need to spell your last name for me, sir.” 

He took a seat next to a boy who balanced three books on his knees and read and highlighted passages in all three. John struggled to keep his head out of his hands. He reeked of airplane, sweat, and desperation. He ignored the lingering glances he got from passing students. 

As he heartbeat slowed and the exhaustion of the day caught up with him, John wondered what the hell he was doing. What did he expect, that he’d fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness? How would he even begin to articulate it? 

_I’m sorry I didn’t push harder. I’m sorry I never asked you about your day. I’m sorry I can’t have a conversation that isn’t about something I saw on tv—I just don’t know what you like anymore. I don’t think I ever did._

_I’m sorry for forgetting about the son I had._

What John hated most was how _relieved_ he’d been when Stiles hadn’t been in his apartment. Even as he worried about flights to LAX, the relief was still there. This time John swore he wouldn’t look away, no matter how hard—

“Mr. Stilinski.” A stern voice made him look up and he scrambled to stand. He quickly took in the suit, gleaming watch, and dour expression, and he didn’t need an introduction to know that it was the Dean. “American University does not offer Alumni networking to expelled students.” 

“ _Expelled_? Stiles wasn’t—he dropped out, he wasn’t—”

“Please lower your voice, Mr. Stilinski.” John snapped his mouth shut and the Dean pulled him aside. John’s ears grew hot when everyone in the room stared at them. “Your son was expelled for educational misconduct.” 

“What does that mean? Was he cheating? Did he skip classes?” 

“We’re under no obligation to disclose the details of your son’s case. Do I need to have security escort you off campus?” 

It wasn’t easy having a genius for a son. John never followed the teacher’s advice give Stiles a test because he already knew the answer. Stiles decided to pursue neuroscience on his own. Other parents sang their kids’ praises while John remained silent. 

Stiles was on a whole level. He spoke too fast and most of the time John didn’t want to understand the concepts that made Stiles talk about people like they were aliens. His discomfort must have been obvious because Stiles hid his books and only spoke in benign pleasantries for the last five years. 

It was dark by the time he made it to the edge of campus. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

John turned to see the young man he sat next to. He was young and his heavy backpack slung off his shoulder. 

“You’re, uh, you’re Stiles’s dad?” 

John had to find a hotel and decide if he was going to fly out to LAX first thing in the morning or poke around DC. He needed to call a cab and he needed to find Stiles even though, technically, he wasn’t missing. The boy worried the frayed sleeve of his jacket between his fingers. 

“I am.” 

The Tibetan singing bowl had helped him with Claudia’s death, but as years passed John had to stop ringing it. The tranquil silence he chased suddenly became hostile and he was unable to shut out the thoughts that tore him to pieces. Thoughts like—

_When did he start ignoring his son? When was the last time Stiles truly smiled at him? Why was it a relief every time Stiles’s gaze shifted off of him?_

“I know why Stiles was expelled.” 

The singing bowl’s song was nearing its end and John wasn’t ready for the silence rushing to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the house of cards falls it falls hard. This was so much fun to get to, the chaos is just getting started! Stiles's main chapter is next, where more will be illuminated. I do hope you enjoyed this, please let me know if you did (or didn't, I want to hear it all!). 
> 
> Love you all. I hope to hear from you, and see you at the next chapter!


	7. Lies of a Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a full moon, Peter and Lydia were hours out on the highway, and Stiles was going to find the evidence to put the final nail in Peter Hale’s long overdue coffin.

People feared silence. Awkward silence, tense silence, the hollow hum of silence that lingered in a deceased loved-one’s belongings—Stiles had lived with it for so long it was a companion. 

The drive home from the BHPD annual fundraiser was no different. Stiles stretched out his legs and massaged the smile out of his face. He heard his father’s grip on the wheel tighten and the tires crunch on gravel. 

Of course silence wasn’t _true_ silence. Silence was his shallow breathing and his heartbeat. It was the gnash of his teeth and the pop of his bones. It was his father’s intake of breath when Stiles left for school that never led to anything being said. 

His father slammed into the house and Stiles thought, _This is it._

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Stiles?” Stiles closed the door and unlaced his shoes as his father whirled around and spoke directly to him for the first time in seven months. “What was _that_?”

That. 

Stiles used his knuckles to dig into his cheeks and jaw in order to relieve the ache. He kicked off his shoes and walked past his father and to the kitchen. He grabbed cold water out of the refrigerator. The Sheriff huffed and puffed behind him and Stiles sighed. 

_That_ could refer to many things. It could refer to the dark skinny jeans that he wore despite hating them as well as the newly bought pastel blue polo. He could mean how Stiles had watched all of _Friends, Modern Family,_ and _The Big Bang Theory_ in preparation for the fundraiser in a true marathon of hell. It could be how Stiles only needed twenty minutes before a circle of politicians, cops, and lawyers were around him and all laughing at his jokes. It could refer to how it was the first year that Stiles hadn’t sat next to his father. Instead he sat next to District Attorney Whittemore. Mr. Whittemore could hardly catch his breath because Stiles kept knocking it out of him with punch line after punch line. 

The _that_ was everything that Stiles had become at the fundraiser from his clothes down to the sense of humor Stiles had perfected thanks to all the comedy albums from the library. 

“What?” Stiles saw the question hit his father across the face. “I thought I did a pretty good job.”

Actually, Stiles hadn’t done a good job. Stiles wouldn’t let himself be modest because he had all of them eating out of his hands, swallowing all the jokes and innuendo he fed them. 

“You were patronizing them!” His father shouted, his cheeks splotchy and red. “I just wanted you to be _normal_!” 

Stiles’s eyes widened. He didn’t think his dad would actually say it. He saw the shadow pass over his father’s face, the humiliated regret and Stiles spoke before the Sheriff could do something pointless, like apologize. 

“I know, dad. I just wanted to be proactive.” 

Stiles laughed because _Jackson Whittemore’s father_ had hugged him goodbye and said he hoped Stiles would keep in touch. 

“You were making fun of them. You don’t even _like_ any of them.” 

Stiles shrugged. 

“They don’t know that.” 

The silence returned and drained all color away from the furniture until Stiles felt like he lived in a satire of an American home. 

Chris Argent’s brick house was nothing like the hollowed home that Stiles had lived in. Stiles stepped inside and breathed easy because of how warm it was. Music played softly from far away and there was a rug in the foyer that had a blue cat on it. Stiles smiled as Chris shook his hand. 

“Welcome.” Chris said it with a smile that made the wrinkles deepen at the corner of his eyes. Stiles had been over Chris’s house a handful of times and he was always shocked at how he felt right at home. “I hope you came hungry. I’m almost done with dinner.” 

“Are you kidding? When you invite me to dinner I fast for two days.” 

Stiles hurried into Chris’s kitchen. Teal tiles brightened the entire room and always made Stiles think of lazy days by the ocean despite being in DC. 

Herbs hung from the ceiling and Stiles hopped up on the counter and peeled garlic. Stiles hummed along with the music as Chris put the final touches on something that smelled delicious. Stiles handed him the garlic and snapped his fingers. 

“Oh, I almost forgot. I picked this up for you.”

Stiles dug around in his bag and presented Chris with a bottle of olive oil. Stiles had gone to the farmer’s market to get the _good stuff_. Chris took the bottle with a smile. 

Chris Argent could have been a professional chef. Stiles always faced the dilemma of wanting to eat fast but needing to savor the flavors Chris fed him. Stiles rubbed his hands on his stomach as he leaned back against his chair. 

“So,” Stiles stretched his arms with forced casualness that made Chris freeze, “do I have a brain tumor or something?” 

“What? No.” Chris frowned. “Stiles, if you’re ever worried about anything, please _ask_. You can ask Allison or myself anything.” 

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugged even though his throat caught painfully. “I just… MRIs weren’t exactly part of the program. I thought there might have been something wrong with me.”

Stiles had been terrified after the first one, when Chris had asked him to simply listen to him and imagine the lies he’d tell to counter various scenarios that Chris would conjure over the microphone. He waited for Chris to come back with some diagnosis, for this dream career to come to an end. 

The shattering _relief_ that came with the affirmation that he was healthy made it hard to breathe. Stiles wiped his eyes and was thankful that Chris pointedly ignored it. 

“It was just a way to track how convincing of a liar you can be.” 

Stiles smiled, his throat less tight. 

“Well, cool. Though I doubt I’m going to come across anyone who’s a walking MRI machine. Talk about the lamest super power ever.” Stiles laughed but Chris didn’t. Not all jokes landed. “So what have you got for me? You only invite me over when it’s something _juicy_.” 

There were days when Stiles kept expecting everything to be taken away again. There were mornings where he’d wake up and would only find relief when Chris and Allison’s contact information were still in his phone. Chris went to his bag and handed him a file. 

“I want you to take a look at him. Just a pass, see what you can make of him.” 

Stiles nodded, eyes scanning over a handsome yet dour face. 

“Cool, cool.” His eyes skimmed over the information. “Ooh, FBI? I’ve never gotten one of those before. Is he under investigation or is he up for a promotion?” Chris had several pictures of the agent. Stiles picked through them. “How is it fair that someone can be attractive enough to look like someone took a shit on their life? This dude looks pissed in _every_ photo and I guarantee he’s got a rotation of flings.” 

Chris poured Stiles coffee, dark and bitter just the way Stiles liked it. 

“He’s a special case. I want you to tell him outrageous lies about your age and occupation. See if he picks up on it.” 

Stiles sipped his coffee and his leg bounced as he read up on Special Agent Derek Hale. 

“You got it, boss.” 

Stile was already cycling through stories, outfits, and jokes for Hale. He savored the thrill of the chase and left Chris’s house with a wide smile. 

He loved his job.

::::

Stiles picked at peeling skin on his shoulder, picking and picking until a thin strip of blood gathered at the raw skin. 

Derek and Allison sat next to him, all three of them squashed in front of Stiles’s laptop. Chris spoke in even tones from his office in DC about expanding Kindness of Strangers once the Peter Hale situation was resolved. Stiles made suggestions about not limiting scouting to colleges and universities, but also community centers to cast a wider net. Stiles drafted lesson plans for groups of new members and he felt the itch to teach as he pick-pick- _picked_ at his skin. 

Allison’s calloused fingers folded over his nails. She gently lifted his hand away from his shoulder. 

“Stiles?” 

He loved his job. Stiles truly did. He didn’t believe in romantic love for himself, he _did_ believe in loving his friends and his career. That love satisfied him like nothing else ever had. 

Wearing masks and dissecting a target provided an addicting rush. Stiles _loved_ going to his closet and draping himself in clothes and becoming a character meant to infiltrate, charm, and lure his target. He tailored himself perfectly for countless senators, congressmen, aides—all sorts of people. Stiles loved the feel of cracking them open with a smile. 

Peter Hale had started off no different. Stiles was benignly pleasant and waited to find the insight to strike him in order to shape the character he’d have to play. 

It never came.

Stiles kept waiting until he realized that Peter brightened the most when Stiles was too tired to pretend and would have lapses of total honesty. It was unnerving, to be so bare with someone. He kept waiting for Peter to shrink away, to become uncomfortable but he never did. He would just pull Stiles closer and kiss him longer. 

“Feel free to shoot this down as stupid or inappropriate,” Stiles fought to get the words past his dry tongue. “But if there were a possibility that Peter Hale is innocent, then would there be anyone left that could feasibly have done this?” Stiles felt the heaviness of Chris’s gaze through the web cam, his saliva thick and bitter. “I mean, don’t the Argents have a history? Why not others? I know you guys hashed out a truce but it could be possible right?” 

He heard the clock tick loudly on the wall. He was being naïve. He had to face the fact that the first person who genuinely enjoyed Stiles being no one other than himself was a murderer. What did it say about Stiles that the one time there was a _no weight_ on his shoulders was when he was at Peter’s house? 

Even Derek and Allison needed the filter of teaching and for Stiles’s method of lying to be strictly professional in order to feel comfortable with him. Stiles didn’t blame them, he _loved_ them, just like he _loved_ what he did for a living. 

_“It’s not out of the question.”_ Chris paused. Derek and Allison were tense on either side of Stiles. _“Most suspects of that nature would come from the Argent bloodlines. I’ll email files on them. Do you think Peter is innocent enough to drop him entirely?”_

Stiles didn’t have to look to know that Derek’s claws dug into his knees and that his eyes shone bright blue. Stiles shook his head. 

“No. No, I don’t.” He squeezed Derek and Allison’s hands. “I just like to have all my bases covered. Just in case.” 

Stiles was only three dates deep with Peter but he knew that he had the Alpha falling for him. It was as elating as it was terrifying, to have Peter drape his jacket around Stiles’s shoulders when the temperature dropped at night and for him to bring him lunch when he worked. Derek had been thorough in his debriefing on werewolf culture. Peter was courting him—claiming him. 

All Stiles had to do was play the part of the innocent human being doted on by his boyfriend. 

Chris cut the connection and soon two files on Gerard and Kate Argent were in Stiles’s inbox. Allison’s lower lip trembled and Stiles closed his laptop with a huff. 

“Peter is falling hard and fast. Since he takes long drives out to deal with the full moon I think that is our best bet for going through and doing a sweep of his apartment.” Stiles hunched over in his chair. “I’ve been leaving my hoodies and jackets over his place so Peter will be used to our scents mixing together. Will that be enough for Peter to _not notice_ that I’ve been rooting around his house for an entire night?” 

Stiles swallowed to stop himself from more useless pondering. He glanced over at Derek and his eyes widened. Derek’s frown was even deeper than usual and he quickly glanced away from Stiles’s eyes. 

“What?”

“What do you mean, _what_? I know that face. That’s the _I-really-don’t-want-to-tell-Stiles-something_ face.” Stiles winked at Derek in an attempt to lighten the mood. Derek’s shoulders curled inward like he wanted to disappear. Stiles’s grin faded. “It’s all right, Derek.”

Allison hugged Derek from behind and rubbed her cheek against his temple. It worked like a charm and Derek relaxed back against her. Stiles kept his thumb rubbing in gentle circles on Derek’s knee until he was ready to speak. 

“It’s not just getting Peter to prefer your scent. The moment he wanted you romantically he must have found it agreeable. In order for him to not notice your scent, your scents must become the same.” Derek looked ill. “Mates—when a werewolf chooses to mate with someone they’ll want their scent on you, inside you… and for you to do to the same to them. It changes both scents so you’re not just two individuals, you’re _together_.” Derek’s eyes were distant even as he met Stiles’s intense gaze. “It’s more than I can ever ask anyone to do.” 

Stiles should have been more upset than he was and he should feel more than tingling anticipation. 

“You don’t have to ask.”

Stiles _should_ be sick at the thought of what he would have to do, but as he walked into the Pleasure Chest in West Hollywood with Allison, he only felt flushed and excited. 

“Hi.” Stiles and Allison grinned at the first employee they saw, a tattooed man with purple dreadlocks. Stiles didn’t have to fake the blush that stained his cheeks. “I was hoping you could help us.”

“Sure.” The man turned and had a nametag that read Terrence. “What can I do for you?” 

“My fiancé and I want to try pegging.” Allison spoke first. “But, uh, we don’t know where to start.”

Stiles bit his lip and bounced on the balls of his feet. 

“I have no experience. So how would we build up to it?” 

Terrence was a fountain of safe sex knowledge and it helped loosen the tightness in Stiles’s chest that had when he thought of the logistics of anal sex. Stiles had a bottle of lube tucked under his arm as he scrutinized two silicon vibrators. He read the settings and care directions when Allison rested her cheek against his shoulder. 

“Gerard is my grandfather and Kate is my aunt and godmother. Do you think… do you think it’s possible that they’re responsible for the Hale fire?”

She wasn’t accusing him. She asked an honest question, though her voice was laced with exhaustion and anxiety. Stiles slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her closer. 

“Anything is possible. But no, I just…” His fingers trembled. “I’m bias. I know I’m _being bias_ due to proximity and exposure. He’s smart and weirdly sweet and—and I think that because he likes me. Give me a month and he will love me.” 

His own bias and affected his judgment and he should have known better. However, he couldn’t bring himself to voice the ache that he felt when he left Peter’s side or how he was giddy whenever he earned a smile from him. 

Stiles left with two dildos, a vibrator, a butt plug, and plenty of lube. The bag swung whimsically from his hand. Allison ran ahead, the sun shimmering in the dark waves of her hair. 

Stiles clenched his hand into a fist. He would focus. He wouldn’t let himself get distracted because he loved his team… and he _loved_ his job. 

::::

Pornography was quickly removed from Stiles’s prep routine. He’d tried it the first night, easing fingers into himself and watching two porn stars have brutal, uninterested sex. Stiles turned it off and focused on keeping his breathing even as he adjusted to the sensations of fingers in his ass. 

It was odd at first, foreign and his wrist cramped as he massaged his walls, swallowing hard as he forced himself not to rush and injure himself. Stiles was used to being efficient and adapting fast, but he wasn’t researching a new sport or book. 

He was preparing himself for intercourse with Peter Hale. 

The first few days Stiles worked in silence, acclimating to the alien feeling of being penetrated until his heart stopped thudding and his stomach didn’t twist. While Peter was handsome and did leave Stiles’s knees weak after several long kisses goodnight—it didn’t magically open him up and ready him for _sex_. 

When he was in college, what felt like centuries ago, he’d gotten and given a few hand jobs and sloppily made out with a man once in a shitty dive bar, but he’d never _hit a home run_ so to speak. 

Back then it had terrified him. Sure, he’d joke about it with his friends the way that all his peers treated the subject: cavalierly with a wink and a nudge. It got to the point where people would assume that Stiles was as skilled and experienced as he acted. Why shouldn’t they believe him? He was _very_ convincing. 

He didn’t know how people could just accept such an intimate breach of their body casually. Stiles would have trouble staying hard when he knew someone wanted to have sex with him. One memorable occasion was when he went limp in some man’s hand as he panted in Stiles’s ear with lewd promises on his lips. 

Stiles didn’t remember the man’s name but he did recall the angry and confused shouts at his back when he left the stranger’s apartment. It had been a few months into his time at Kindness of Strangers and Stiles thought it would be wise if he lost his virginity. He didn’t follow through after the first blunder. 

Since then he’d learned to pretend to flirt, to be seduced, and to worship sex the way society demanded. He’d been good at avoiding it. He had his own functioning hands that weren’t strange, assuming, or mocking. 

The first dildo was thin, nowhere near the size of Peter’s dick that Stiles had often felt pressed against his thigh. 

He went through emails from Chris, read the files on Gerard and Kate, and met up with Peter three to four times a week. Every night Stiles would watch episodes of _Broad City_ and _You’re The Worst_ while he rocked his hips with a dildo or a plug in his ass. 

He found his prostate easily enough. It wasn’t a miraculous fireworks display of pleasure. It was definitely noticeable, a sharp throb whenever Stiles brushed a toy against it as he watched Abbi and Ilana race around New York. 

Three weeks of daily prep and Stiles was ready. He’d practiced with varying paces, twists of his hips, and was able to stay hard. 

Derek and Allison watched Stiles get dressed (dark jeans, purple sweater and periwinkle Converse). 

“Tonight’s the night.” Stiles pretended not to notice Derek and Allison’s white knuckles. “So I’ll probably be staying at his place. If I don’t text you by seven in the morning, assume the worst.” He picked up Peter’s jacket, a slick leather moto that Peter had given him with a wink and a _It looks good on you_. “Wish me luck.” 

They hugged him like he was leaving for war.

Stiles made Lydia laugh all night, the need for her to _like_ and _approve_ drove him to a near-relentless territory, bringing her to the brink of tears several times. He had two drinks to get him relaxed but not enough to impair his judgment. 

He kissed the back of Peter’s neck and he had control of the situation. His heart pounded in his chest as he palmed Peter’s erection through his slacks and he remembered thinking, _“Its no big deal. It will be the same as the last three weeks.”_

No one had kissed Stiles the way Peter did, like he wanted Stiles to taste, hear, and feel his affection—as if Peter anticipated that Stiles wouldn’t believe in spoken word so he skipped right to the _action._

All the preparation in the world didn’t matter, not when Peter moaned, broken and soft against Stiles’s lips. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Stiles said with an honest smile, “yes, I’m sure.” 

Peter’s fingers were longer, gentler. Stiles was used to working himself open efficiently with a television show playing in the background. _I’m an idiot,_ Stiles thought in a rush of heat as Peter left suckling bites along his thighs. He couldn’t catch his breath, he felt dizzy, moaning into Peter’s mouth as those slender fingers worked themselves inside him. Peter pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses against his neck. His breath fanned out over Stiles’s flushed skin. 

Stiles’s breathing exercises were dust in the wind once Peter murmured praises and assurances against his lips. A fine crafted dildo was a pale comparison to Peter’s living flesh. Stiles’s legs hugged Peter’s hips when Peter slowly pushed deep inside. The first thrust made them both moan. 

Stiles’s mind had never been so clear, so rooted in the present that it was alarming, to be so _aware_ of the moment that his chest heaved painfully. The pleasure, the intimacy of Peter moving so deeply was a euphoric torture like nothing else Stiles had ever experienced. He realized that he was babbling, a string of Peter’s name, promises to God, and everyone in between to just keep _going please, it feels so good, Peter—please—_

Peter licked his fluttering pulse, his voice tight. 

“I’ve got you, Stiles,” he promised as his fingers wrapped around Stiles’s erection, “Come with me—”

His vision blurred and he could see a slight red glow from Peter’s eyes. He was stripped of language and Peter kept thrusting, kept kissing, kept begging for Stiles to—

_Come with me, Stiles. Please._

Stiles dug his nails into Peter’s back and came with a choked sob, Peter following immediately after. 

He drifted in the void of semi-consciousness. Stiles understood why the French called the orgasm _petite mort_. He couldn’t feel anything except prickly numbness in the tips of his fingers and toes. Even sound was muffled and he let his body twitch with the aftershocks of pleasure. 

Stiles had been prepared to be fucked. He didn’t expect Peter to make love. 

Peter’s thumb wiped Stiles’s eyes.

“Hey.”

Stiles’s throat tightened at the unrestrained warmth and affection in Peter’s voice. He smiled wide. 

“Hey.” Stiles kissed Peter’s hand despite his trembling fingers. “That was unreal, Peter.” Stiles rolled his eyes with a crooked grin. “I can see why people make sex such a big deal.” 

Peter snorted. 

“I’ll have to keep my ego in check with such high praise.” Stiles laughed and Peter laughed with him, so hard that the bed shook. Stiles’s made it to the bathroom to get a washcloth. He tossed it to Peter, and the Alpha yelped when he realized Stiles had run it under cold water. He pulled Stiles to bed and kissed him deeply. “You’re a menace.” 

Stiles flopped back against the pillow. Peter traced his fingers in mindless patterns on Stiles’s chest. Stiles closed his eyes focused on the sensation. 

“Thank you.”

He heard Peter chuckle. 

“You don’t have to _thank_ me for sex.” The mattress dipped and Peter kissed Stiles’s shoulders, darting his tongue out to taste. “Ask for it anytime. That was… with you… it’s never been so exquisite.” 

Stiles opened his eyes and the moment he saw Peter’s face he wished he hadn’t. 

Peter stared down at him with an easy-going smile that softened his features. He saw the worlds _“I love you”_ in every breath Peter took—silent but unmistakable. If Stiles were to say it first Peter would return it. Stiles knew this. 

Stiles should have felt a deep, ugly, yet aggressive vindication. He held a murderer’s heart in his hands. 

All he felt was a sour ache in his chest. 

He swallowed it and rushed up to kiss Peter, to coax him into a second round. Peter growled and Stiles chased the sound, grinding against Peter’s hardening cock. 

He needed to change their scents, the sooner the better. 

Stiles kissed Peter like he was falling, like had had already fallen. Stiles clung to his determination, he used it to keep his heartbeat even and his cocky smile steady. 

Just because Peter loved Stiles—the real Stiles—didn’t erase the past. It didn’t change the reason why Stile was in Los Angeles in the first place. Stiles wasn’t sure what love felt like… but he imagined it was close to the mess of bewildered affection he felt for Peter. 

Peter whined against his lips. 

“I want you to fuck me… please.” 

Stiles nodded.

“As you wish.” 

He made Derek, Allison, and Chris a promise. He intended to keep it.

::::

Stiles’s breath puffed out in foggy clouds. He tugged Peter’s jacket tight around him and stood still when Derek attached a small camera to his shoulder. Stiles relished the chilled night air as Derek gave him an earpiece. Derek smoothed his hands over Stiles’s shirt. The lines in Derek’s face deepened around his eyes. 

“You okay?”

Derek lifted his eyes to meet Stiles’s before he gave his shoulders a squeeze. 

“I should be asking you that.” 

Los Angeles was an odd city that seemed to constantly change. One block would be clean and full of expensive boutiques, the next block would be littered with abandoned strip malls. Side streets would cut off all the noise to the point where it would easy to forget they were in a city. 

Stiles twirled his keys around his fingers. His hands had a slight tremor and he forced himself to take deep breaths. 

There was a full moon, Peter and Lydia were hours out on the highway, and Stiles was going to find the evidence to put the final nail in Peter Hale’s long overdue coffin. Derek’s lips twisted like he wanted to say more. Stiles squeezed Derek’s hands. 

“I’m going to go. Allison, we’re all hooked up with Chris, right?”

_“Yes, you are.”_ Allison chirped from his earpiece. _“You’re streaming and we can hear you loud and clear.”_

_“Stiles.”_ Chris’s voice came across all their earpieces. The four of them were connected, Chris in DC, Allison back at their home base in West Hollywood, and Derek and Stiles just down the street from Peter’s house. _“Keep physical contact to a minimum or Peter might notice the additional scent.”_

Derek pulled his hands back. Stiles’s heart constricted and he smiled, too wide and bright. 

“All good, boss. Hopefully I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Stiles rubbed his arms. “Then I will take a long, thorough shower so the real hugging party can begin.”

Chris chuckled and Derek went back to their van. He’d keep an eye out for Peter’s Pagoda and Allison would make sure the camera and audio were running smoothly to Chris. Stiles clutched the key he’d copied while Peter was at work and walked down the sidewalk. 

The crushing eyes of the upper-class residential neighborhood bore down on him. His heartbeat increased and sweat broke out on the back of his neck when he stepped up Peter’s pathway. 

_“Stiles?”_ Allison whispered in his ear as Stiles slide the key into the lock. _“Are you okay? Your heartbeat has jumped a bit.”_

“I’m good.” Stiles twisted the key and the door opened to the foyer where Stiles had stood countless times. He flipped on the lights with a loud exhale. “I’m great.” 

He moved through the halls like a ghost. He didn’t bother with the living room and went right to the bedroom and attached office. He pulled open desk drawers, fingering through bills until he got to the personal correspondence. Unsurprisingly, Peter didn’t keep in touch with many people. His only friend was Lydia Martin. 

The letters he found were not from Lydia. They were from Alpha MacGuillis. 

“Derek, do you see this?”

Stiles had to dig in the back of Peter’s bottom desk drawers. There were stacks of letters bound together by old rubber bands. Stiles sat in Peter’s chair and glanced over the pages. 

_“She never includes Peter’s name, only his address. She doesn’t want anyone to know she’s writing him.”_

_“Would it be safe to say that she’s hiding him from her Pack?”_ Allison’s voice was a needed comfort in his ear. _“Hiding that kind of information from her Pack isn’t typical Alpha behavior.”_

Derek growled in agreement. Stiles flipped through letters, each one so generic and cryptic it was infuriating. 

“Who the fuck is _she_?” 

Stiles ground his teeth and kept moving letter after letter where the subject was always about a mysterious _she_ or _her_. 

The more recent letters were short and direct. 

_She’s returned to the US._

_She’s on the east coast._

_Remains east. She has to come to you first._

_She is still in New York. Hold your ground._

The most recent letter was from last week. 

_She’s testing your patience. Don’t bend to it._

Stiles shoved the chair back and ripped oven every drawer because this couldn’t be it. He pushed past boxes of staples and paperclips while ragged breaths burned his throat. 

_“Stiles,”_ Chris spoke firmly. Short of him breaking Peter’s desk into pieces, there was nothing more he could do. _“Stiles, calm down.”_

“I am calm,” Stiles lied, “we need _more_ , Chris, this isn’t enough.” 

Stiles worked in enraged silence. He poured through Peter’s closets, clothes, shoes, kitchen— _everything_ until he was out of breath. He leaned against the kitchen counter and worried his lower lip between his teeth until he tasted blood. 

The silence from his earpiece crushed his chest. He heard Derek sigh, a deep, miserable sound. Stiles stalked down the hall. He darted between the laundry room, the hall with the large bookcase, and Peter’s bedroom. He repeated the path several times until he finally realized why it made him so uneasy. 

“Am I crazy or does this architecture not make any sense? Look,” Stiles slowed his pace and retraced his steps. “This long stretch of hall with the bookcase between the bedroom and the laundry room is huge but there’s no room _utilizing_ this space.” Hope bloomed in his chest. “Peter’s not stupid. This isn’t a mistake. He’s got a secret room in true super villain fashion.” 

Allison laughed and Stiles felt more sure of himself. 

_“How much you want to bet that it’s behind the bookcase?”_ Allison smiled, though Stiles knew she was gnashing her teeth like the rest of them. _“I’ll put down ten dollars.”_

_“I’ll call that bet.”_

Stiles pulled the books off the shelves in sections and kept them in the correct order. He found the lever on the second shelf from the top. He swallowed. 

“Is the video and audio still clear?” The team said that yes, all the equipment was working. Stiles grinned, though it was less of a smile and more of him baring his teeth so hard it felt like blood was going to push out from his gums. “Okay. I’m going to open it.” 

Stiles’s knuckles were white and he gripped the lever and pulled. Deep twists of gears moved and the blood that roared in his ears sounded like the Hallelujah chorus. The smell of old papers, ink, and dust was a godsend. _This is it,_ Stiles bellowed in his mind, _this will make it all worthwhile._

The door swung open with a long, unwavering creak. 

::::

_“It wasn’t Peter, it was Kate.”_

Allison swallowed acidic bile and moved fast, disconnecting the stream. Her father had immediately called for their withdrawal once Stiles had turned on the lights to Peter’s secret room. He promised to get eyes on Kate and, until then, ordered them to get on a plane to DC as quickly as possible. 

That had been five minutes ago and she still hadn’t heard back from her father. She unplugged everything and threw the essentials in a bag. Allison did one last walk through of their apartment, their go-bags piled by the door. Derek’s room had no decorations and she’d taken his laptop. Stiles’s room had more embellishments that would have to be left behind but she’d put all his hard drives in the canvas backpack strapped to her shoulders. 

“Clear.” Allison breathed. Still, her father had not called. “All clear.”

She shut off the lights. Stiles and Derek would be back and she’d meet them on the street where they would then speed to LAX. She stormed down the hall and turned to the main living room in their apartment only to come to a grinding halt. Her phone buzzed in her hand as her Aunt Kate turned around with a dazzling smile. 

“Hey there, Alley-cat.” Allison couldn’t breathe and her knees shook. Kate’s grin widened. “Ah, sweet little Allison, you’ve fallen so far from the tree.” 

Allison slipped the bags off of their shoulders and clenched her fists. Kate did the same. 

“I’m happy to disappoint.”

Kate laughed the same laugh that would bubble from her when she played with Allison as a child. 

“At least you’re a woman of your convictions. I can respect that, even if you’re running around with that boy and his dumb dog.” She licked her lips and Allison breathed even and hoped that she could at least incapacitate her aunt if she couldn’t kill her. “What flowers do you think they should be? Roses? Peonies?” Their air was knocked from her lungs as she thought back to the gardens she played in as a kid. How she thought it was odd that her aunt had given the flowerbeds such silly names. “Stilinski sounds more like a pansy, don’t you agree?” 

Allison flew forward with a despairing scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've waited so long to write this chapter. It still makes me excited just thinking about it. I hope this answers some questions from where Stiles is coming from. Anyway, this story is on its way to being wrapped up, I can see it ending anywhere from 2-4 more chapters. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, the good, the bad, the neutral, the bored, I'm all ears! Also, rating change!


	8. No More Lies to Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was a fine imitation of a beautiful woman, great hair with wavy extensions, perfect lipstick, and manicured nails. But her eyes were dead and Stiles lowered his gaze from the void.

Talia Hale’s wedding reception had been a night that drowned in howls and champagne. She’d rented a manor in upstate New York in order to fit the entire Hale Pack. 

Music and laughter softened to a dull roar when Peter stumbled out onto the balcony. He’d undone the first few buttons of his white shirt and tilted his head back to let the night air wash over his neck. The moon hung in a lazy half-crescent and the stars were especially bright. It was a perfect night for a perfect wedding—but that could have been the wolfsbane-infused champagne talking. 

Glass double-doors opened and Talia glided out in her stunning wedding dress. 

“You are beautiful.”

Peter smiled, wide and drunk as his sister slung her arm around his shoulders and kissed his stubbly cheek. 

“More beautiful than you?”

“Well,” Peter snickered, “just for today.”

She carried a bottle of champagne and handed it to him. He took a swig. A bit of bubbly slipped down his chin. Talia leaned on the balcony and gazed past the glass doors. Peter followed her line of sight to see David, flushed and smiling. 

“Do you see yourself getting married?” 

After a few moments of Talia hitting Peter’s back as he choked on champagne, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at his sister. 

“I haven’t planned on it, Talia.” Peter cleared his throat. “It’s not something I ever pictured for myself.” 

They shared a comfortable silence as the future stared down at them. Talia would lead the Hale Pack and her children would be a new and greater foundation. With Peter as a ruthless Second they could achieve anything. That night, with champagne stained tongues the future was full of promise and opportunity. 

They had been so young and naïve. 

“I know you’re not the type and I’m not saying love, in that sense, will ever find you.” Talia smiled, nostalgic and hopeful. “But… I hope that if you find someone who’s worthy, who’s earned your trust as an equal—that you won’t be afraid of it. Love,” Talia crooned around a mouthful of sharp teeth, “is as dangerous as it is rewarding.” 

Peter _missed_ Talia most when he needed advice. He missed his sister’s candid and optimistic approach to situations. That night, before years of mourning, Peter spoke despite his tight throat. 

“I promise.” 

David stumbled through the doors and kissed Peter’s cheek before he swept his new wife up in a warm embrace. The rest of the night continued on in a carefree whirlwind of dancing and howls. 

The California sun twinkled mockingly over Peter’s years later. He drove, Kate’s picture crumpled in his fist where Stiles had scrawled his simple message. 

_She’s here_. Peter thought when the day came that Kate finally got too close he’d feel satisfied. He thought that the ever-present cold that chilled him would freeze as he broke her neck—or would he let her bleed—or would he burn her? Peter thought he would mull over the many options on his tongue like a fine wine. Peter would kill her, retire, and in his will he’d split his assets down the middle for Derek and Lydia. He’d live in a cottage somewhere in the country and grow fat on macaroons and satisfaction. _She’s here_. 

Kate was _here_ and all grandiose plans of intricate and intimate murder vanished. He flew blind, Lydia beside him, all the way to West Hollywood, to a small apartment complex off Fountain and Poinsettia. 

“Are you sure he wrote that?”

“I’m sure.”

Peter _knew_ Stiles like a second skin. He wanted to know if it had been more than a warning, if he’d written it under duress—but more than anything Peter just wanted to know if Stiles was okay, if he was safe. If Kate Argent was in Los Angeles… then no one would be safe until Peter was finished. Peter stood outside of the gate and called Stiles. He ground his teeth when it went directly to voicemail. 

Lydia’s shoulder bumped his; her eyes alert and swept the quiet streets. 

“You’re good.” 

Peter twisted the knob on the gate until it snapped and shattered in his hands. He pushed the gate open. Peter’s mind was eerily empty, he was chained to each passing moment, unable to think as he saw that apartment eight’s door, Stiles’s door, was ajar. 

Without pausing for thought Peter pushed the door open. 

Blood stained the living room carpet, only a few hours old, and a single smashed phone laid in the middle of a pile of pill bottles and pinches of white powder. The icy tendrils around Peter’s heart eased their grip, only slightly, when the model of phone was different from Stiles’s. 

Peter’s limbs felt heavy as he stepped over the suspiciously tidy pile of drugs. He followed the trail of blood and a faint heartbeat into the kitchen. The hum of the open refrigerator and the cold air did not distract Peter from the young woman on the ground. 

She was limp, hand outstretched and caught in the refrigerator door. Her skin shone with perspiration and her face was bloodied and bruised. She had long dark brown hair and her front tooth was chipped. Peter crouched down close to her as Lydia leaned against the kitchen doorway with a choked, “ _Oh my God_.” 

A small spot of dried blood stained the inside of her inner thigh and Peter couldn’t figure out what made a small enough puncture wound through the denim to cause the injury until he spotted a syringe under the cabinets, as if flung there. The angle and placement of the injection wound was strange, not exactly natural for an addict. 

“Is she dead?” Lydia swallowed and inched closer as Peter removed the woman’s hand and closed the refrigerator door. He gently straightened the woman’s head. Her chest barely moved with her breathing and her heart raced unnaturally fast due to an amphetamine push. “Peter, is she—”

He barely had to squeeze her shoulders before her eyes flew open and she sucked in a violent wheeze. Lydia shrieked but Peter refused to look away. Her dark eyes locked with his and her body slackened. She _knew_ him. She _recognized_ him despite Peter never seeing her in his life. 

She grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled herself into a sitting position. She squinted against the sun and Peter could make out the trails of dried tears along her bloody cheeks. Her heart raced, unnaturally so, and she pushed her hand to her chest as if the pressure would slow it down. 

“What,” her voice gave out, a ragged croak from the black bruises around her throat, “what time is it?”

“Uh…” Lydia stared wide-eyed at the woman as she pulled out her phone. “One thirty-five.” 

The woman’s grip on Peter tightened to the point of pain and she squeezed her eyes shut, her breaths heaving out of her. 

“I can’t—I—”

“You need a hospital.” 

The woman shook her head and Lydia’s thumb hovered over her phone’s screen. The woman met Peter’s eyes. 

“I need to get to Stiles. I need,” She pushed her hand _hard_ against her chest, above her crackling heart. “I know where he is.” 

She tried to stand but her legs trembled like a foal’s. She grabbed onto Peter and he steadied her. She growled, high and uncontrolled and she hit her own legs. Her eyes shone with unshed tears and with each hit Peter could hear her whisper desperately “ _Come on_.” Each punch to her legs was harder than the last until Peter stopped her with a firm grip. 

“You have drugs in your system.” The woman’s lower lip trembled and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Do you know what it was and how much?” 

The silence of the beaten and broken apartment grew and swelled above them like a tidal wave mid-crest. Lydia clutched her phone like a lifeline and valuable seconds ticked away. Her tears continued and Peter’s heart sank, knowing the answer before she confirmed. 

“N-No. I don’t—she—” Peter didn’t have much experience with drugs. Werewolves and their metabolism could burn through anything within seconds. Slimy chills skittered over his skin as he watched the young woman’s eyes slide to the side, unfocused with dilated pupils, and her already fast breathing and heartbeat increased further. She spoke quietly and her eyes moved in repetitive motions from the left to the right like she was in a sleep cycle despite being awake. “I don’t know what’s in me—in me—it won’t come _out_ and I, I can’t be like this, I’m no _good_ like this—we were wrong and I—she took, Kate took them to the gardens and—”

Peter extended his claws until they punctured the denim but not her skin. The pain stilled her eyes and made her breath catch. 

“Kate as in Kate Argent?” She nodded, eyes wide and unblinking. “And you know where she is?” 

“I do.” 

Peter hauled her to her feet. He gripped the dishtowel with one hand and ran it under cold water before he washed her face. Lydia, to her impeccable credit, pocketed her phone and shook the shivers out of her hands. Any ethical person would call an ambulance and the police. Lydia couldn’t hear the woman’s heart like Peter did—even for a healthy human, the organ was stressed. There was a large possibility that if the drug cocktail in her system didn’t kill her that it would leave lifelong damage. 

A quiet part of Peter’s mind was concerned for this woman’s well being. When the Kate Argent nightmare was over that quiet voice would get louder and the guilt could reside with him for a lifetime—but Peter was the Hale Second. He made quick decisions with logic and precision. 

“Peter.” Lydia and Peter went still at his name coming from the woman’s lips. Her nails dug into his shoulder and she hobbled into the living room, not pausing when she stepped over her own bloodstain. “I’ll need a few things.” Her lips were crackled and white. “It’s not a lot, but we’ll need them.” 

“Okay.” Lydia pushed her hair out of her face. “Tell me where to find it and I’ll get it for you.”

Peter met Lydia’s gaze before the woman directed them into movement. 

::::

Stiles’s stomach clenched as Derek took a sharp turn, burning out of Larchmont and driving towards West Hollywood. The sky was still pitch dark, the street lamps their only guide. In a few hours the streets would be heavy with traffic, but there was a magical witching hour of time when Los Angeles was quiet. They coasted along an empty Beverly Drive and on any other day Stiles would have rolled down the window to savor the peaceful silence. Instead, Stiles dripped with sweat and his tongue soured. 

“Okay, I’ve got the tickets. We’re set for an eight-thirty departure. We’ll be separated but we’ll be flying first class.” 

Another sharp turn had them shooting up La Brea. Stiles clung to the door, his teeth grinding. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Peter’s hidden room and the years upon years of research and _waiting_. He saw Peter’s smile and felt his gentle, affectionate touches and it made Stiles’s stomach curdle. He’d grabbed the first picture of Kate closest to him and a sharpie the moment Chris’s hollowed voice came through the earpiece with a, _“She boarded a flight to LAX ten hours ago.”_

_She’s here._

It was a short and ominous message. He hoped it would be enough to have Peter leave Los Angeles, maybe even leave the country. It was all Stiles could do before he’d run out of Peter’s house. 

The van rocked to a halt outside of their apartment. Stiles slid the door open and frowned when Allison wasn’t outside ready and waiting for them. Derek got out without saying a word, he’d been grimly silent the entire ride. Stiles glanced at him and he felt the compounded misery coming off Derek in waves. 

Stiles twisted his key in the gate, Derek right behind him. 

“Derek,” Stiles walked down the uneven stone pathway between the apartments, “it’s not your fault, all right?” Stiles slid his key into the knob and turned to face Derek as pushed the door open. “You know that, right?” 

Derek wouldn’t look at him and his lips were pressed into a thin line. It made Stiles’s eyes burn and he hated how he had no _time_ to be the reassuring person Derek needed. Stiles turned back just as Derek inhaled sharply. Kate Argent grinned at him. 

“ _Stiles—”_

Derek shouted, too little and too late. Kate had a shotgun and Stiles saw Allison’s body on the ground, her eyes were open but he couldn’t tell if she was breathing—

Stiles can’t remember hearing the blast, only the white-hot agony that burned through his chest and stole his breath. He crumbled to the ground, his world silent as he laid, helpless, on his stoop. Each inhale tasted like copper and salt. 

Kate stepped over him and his fingers jerked uselessly. He still couldn’t tell if Allison was breathing—please _God_ let her still be breathing. 

Derek fell behind him and Stiles’s dumb ears didn’t know if he’d been shot, tazed, or stabbed. Tears streaked down Stiles’s cheeks. Allison coughed and he felt a brief well of hope before Kate’s boots crushed down on his chest. Whatever she shot him with burned and she pushed him onto his back and straddled him. 

She kept his chin clutched between her fingers. She was a fine imitation of a beautiful woman, great hair with wavy extensions, perfect lipstick, and manicured nails. But her eyes were dead and Stiles lowered his gaze from the void. 

Her free hand held a wet white cloth. Her thighs squeezed him and she laughed. Stiles’s chest bled and she leaned over him. Her hot breath washed over his face. Stiles could only think of one manta. 

_Burn in Hell._

He must have said it aloud because she laughed and laughed as she pressed the cloth over his nose and mouth. 

::::

The wind whipped through Lydia’s hair, hard enough the make it sting her shoulders. The pain helped ground her, helped keep her grip from falling off the steering wheel and onto the assault rifle that rested on her lap. Normally when she drove Peter’s car on the highway she’d be armed with her scrunchie and sunglasses, but she had neither. 

Their new companion wore her sunglasses and Peter helped her tie up her hair. She sat between them. She’d dried her cheeks to the point of rubbing them raw. Dried blood still dusted her lips and nose but Lydia was counting on the city’s indifference and tendency to never look too close. They drove through Downtown and headed toward the I-5.

“C-Could you,” The woman held up her right, bloodied hand and curled her fingers in a silent charade of claws at Peter, and pressed them against her arm, “take the pain of the drugs out of me?” 

Lydia’s grip on the wheel faltered and she shot Peter a _look_ but he ignored it. Lydia _hated_ the feeling of being laid bare. This woman, though drugged to her gills, _knew_ them and all of their secrets. Peter, to his credit, was ashen as he shook his head. 

“I could—but for something like this the transition once I stop could severely damage your heart, or kill you.”

The woman’s throat bobbed and she swallowed soft sounds, like she was determined not to cry anymore. 

“Okay. Then we’ll save it for when it counts.” Peter opened his mouth to disagree but she interrupted him. “Look, you can hear it, right? How fucked my heart is already? My hands need to be steady for when—when we get close. After that, whatever happens… happens.” 

She clenched her hands into fists. Lydia felt her own pulse race, being so close to such a chaotic and unknown variable. Who was she? How did she know Stiles? Why did she know so much about Peter? Why was she beaten to near death and drugged by Kate Argent? 

Peter squeezed Lydia’s shoulder. He finally met her eyes and Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t alone in her fears as they hurdled down the highway. Peter burned with the same questions that he couldn’t ask. Yet. 

“I need a phone.” The woman hissed and her nails left red marks on her skin. “Please.” 

Peter dug in his pocket. 

“Here.” He unlocked the screen. “Just—yeah, you got it.” 

She dialed and Peter mouthed “Two-Oh-Two” at Lydia. DC’s area code. Despite being in the desert goosebumps spread over Lydia’s skin as the woman pressed Peter’s phone to her ear. She gasped when whomever she called picked up. 

“Allison—Allison I’m Allison—Dad it’s me!” Lydia kept her eyes on the road, the city behind them and the desert an endless stretch on the horizon. The woman—Allison’s voice shed its coarse, beaten quality and suddenly she was _young_ —so young that Lydia found it hard to breathe. “Dad, Stiles and D-Derek—they’ve been taken.” Her cold demeanor at Stiles’s apartment had been a way for her mind to keep its grip over the amphetamines. ON the phone with her father speaking to her, Allison was just as scared as Peter and Lydia. “The,” She hiccupped, “the old summer stables.” 

Peter listened intently, no doubt able to hear the entire conversation. His grip on Lydia’s shoulder remained a steady anchor. 

The sands were a brutal blur. Allison knew _Derek_ , Peter’s nephew, and by proxy Stiles knew Derek. Lydia should have scrutinized more, she should have dug deeper—maybe she could have—

Allison covered her face with her free hand and Lydia saw that two of her fingernails were _gone_. 

“No.” She smiled, fragile and heartbroken. “No, I’m not. I’m heading to the gardens now. D-Dad, I—” Her hands shook and blood gathered on the tips of her fingers, where her nails were supposed to be. Her teeth slammed together and she had to push the words through her throat. “I love you.” 

Lydia didn’t know what was worse, driving toward a macabre unknown, or that they were being led by a girl who made sure to tell her father she loved him just in case it was the last time. 

::::

Finstock had insisted on cooking for Derek for his last night in DC. His bags were packed and his skin buzzed when he thought of Stiles’s grand plan to infiltrate the Alpha Tribunal. He hadn’t felt hope in such a long time and when he tried to be cautious Stiles would be there with a confident smile and a firm promise to bring Peter to justice. Derek hadn’t realized just how cold he’d been keeping himself until he was shown how to feel warmth again. 

He slid his copy of Finstock’s house key into the door and took his shoes off in the foyer. 

“I’m in the kitchen!” Finstock crowed as soon as Derek closed the door. Finstock’s kitchen was a mess. Flour and bits of pasta dough clung to a cutting board and Derek wiped his mouth to make sure he hadn’t drooled all over himself at the delicious smell. Finstock leaned over a pot and the back of his neck was pink from the heat coming off the boiling water. “Before you ask, _no_ , this is not me pulling out all the stops. This is just a _taste_ of my brilliance. This is what you have to look forward to when you come back.” 

Derek gathered up some of the dirty dishes and brought them to the sink. He spared a look at his partner. Finstock had sounded like his normal self, but his shoulders were tight and his eyes shone too bright. Derek’s chest lurched and he moved without thinking and folded himself against Finstock’s back. 

Over the years Derek couldn’t remember his first hug with Finstock—only that he was glad it happened. Finstock, who was a tactile man, always respected Derek’s need for space and never remarked how Derek would go from solitude to seeking out embraces most would deem uncomfortably intimate. Embraces like this, when Derek’s chin was on Finstock’s shoulder as his hands rested on Finstock’s stomach, were normal for werewolves. He was aware it was not normal for humans that were colleagues. 

Finstock leaned against Derek’s chest and tilted his head back so he bumped Derek’s opposite shoulder. It exposed his neck and Derek closed his eyes and squeezed Finstock tighter. He smelled salt as Finstock’s breath hitched. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me. Now I have to be paired with Greenberg, that’s the _worst_.” 

Finstock’s breath caught and broke on the word _worst_ and it hit Derek like a sledgehammer to the chest. He was going to miss Finstock. He’d miss Finstock’s manic grin and the comfort of his hand on his shoulder when they were given a new assignment. Derek squeezed Finstock too hard but he couldn’t help it—he wanted to remember the feel of the only person Derek had enjoyed touching since Laura. 

“Hey, hold on.” Finstock firmly pried Derek’s hands off him so he could turn around to give him a proper hug. “Easy.” Finstock’s hands were warm and soothing on Derek’s trembling back. “It’s going to be rough without you, but you’ll be back and it will be good ol’ Hale and Finstock, comedy duo of a lifetime.” 

Derek laughed and he felt Finstock smile against his shoulder. 

“Greenberg won’t be that bad.” 

“Eugh!” Finstock pushed him back with an affronted scowl. “I take it all back, you’re dead to me, Hale.”

His lips twitched and soon they were both laughing big and loud enough to fill Finstock’s entire kitchen. Derek wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He squeezed Finstock’s arms, just below his elbows. 

“I will miss you.”

“I know.” Finstock’s smile wobbled. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. I sincerely mean that.” 

That night they’d eaten pasta that Finstock had made from scratch that had sliced tomatoes, olive oil, and capers mixed in with a side of string beans. It was, without a doubt, the best meal Derek had ever experienced. 

Derek woke with a start, like he was being hauled out of the ocean. One moment he was weightless and comfortable, the next he was gasping for hair as harsh light stung his eyes. 

“Thank God, dude.” Stiles’s voice came from directly behind him and Derek felt ropes dig into his chest. He grunted and blinked the spots out of his eyes to see he was restrained to a chair, rope binding him and Stiles back to back. “Derek, Derek—”

“How long have you been awake?” 

Thankfully he fell back on his training, his body slowly catching up to his mind as he took in his bound ankles and his wrists tied to the chairs arms. The rope was standard, not soaked in wolfsbane. He flexed his fingers. 

“I think an hour? But I don’t know how much time has passed.” Stiles whispered and Derek was relieved to hear him speak, stressed but still steady, still moving fast to solve the problem. “The rope, can your claws—?”

“Yes.” 

Derek’s limbs prickled like static. He elongated his claws and tugged at the bonds, the arms of the chair creaking. He bit his lip, breathing hard as he gazed out at the wide expanse of white sands. He could feel shade on them, they were in a barn of some kind but Derek was facing the wide open doors. 

He rocked in small motions, willing the strength back into his body. He looked down to monitor the creaking wood—only to notice that his shirt had been cut open while he’d been unconscious. There were spots on his chest, at least eight dots that had been drawn onto his skin in different locations in sharpie. 

“Stiles,” Derek pulled, sloppy and desperate at the bonds. He recalled the positions of the spots, studying them at the Academy of places to target to avoid hitting major arteries. “ _Stiles_ —”

From behind him and to the left he heard the stretch of a cord going taught followed by the _snap_ of release. Stiles screamed as an arrow lodged itself in his lower abdomen and pierced all the way through one of the points drawn on Derek. Derek ground his teeth. It hurt but he could feel himself start to heal around the arrow. He focused on Stiles and hated that he could smell so much blood already. 

“Stiles.” Derek swallowed down the taste of copper that bubbled in his throat. “Stiles, remember your breathing exercises.” Stiles swore and Derek smelled his tears. “I know—I know that it sounds stupid, but you have to slow your breathing and make the oxygen last.” Derek breathed deep and winced when it made the arrow move with his body. “In for four,” he inhaled, then blew out the air, “out for four.” 

Derek leaned his head back until it touched Stiles and they breathed together, their heartbeats slowing to a slightly less hysteric pace. After a few successful breaths, the sound of high heels against cement made Stiles tense. Despite the feeling of dread that weighed down his chest Derek also felt fierce pride for Stiles keeping his breathing even. 

“Cute.” Kate’s voice was firm and echoed in the musty barn. “I’m impressed. You got a handle on yourself quickly, Stiles. Not a lot of people can do that, werewolves included.” 

Derek jerked when she carded her fingers through his hair gently, like they were lovers. She walked in front of him, smiling at him and his bloodied chest. She turned to look out at the flats. The dry heat blew her hair back. 

“This place used to be so green. Green for miles. We had a river,” She pointed to a faint smudge of brown along the sands, “right there. We had orchards and flowers. It was a paradise. I’ve neglected it for too long, but you two,” she sang with as she ruffled Derek’s hair, “are going to help me turn over a new leaf.” 

She held a bow and quiver and she turned, her silhouette sharp against the sands. She pulled the bow back and Derek flinched. 

“Stiles, hold your breath!” 

Derek felt Stiles’s chest freeze just before Kate let another arrow fly, this one sank in Derek’s left shoulder and ended in Stiles’s right. It pushed the air out of Stiles but he remained conscious He didn’t scream. Kate’s eye twitched but the look of irritation vanished with a blink. Kate stepped out of Derek’s line of sight, back to where Stiles faced.

He heard her remove another arrow from her quiver and the overwhelming stench of wolfsbane filled Derek’s nostrils. Stiles’s heartbeat quickened and his blood seeped past Derek’s shoes. He heard her draw back her bow. 

“You’ll be found.” This time it wasn’t Stiles’s breathing that wavered—it was Kate’s. Even as he bled, even though each movement must have been _agonizing_ , his heartbeat remained steady and he spoke clearly. “We _know_ and you _will_ be found, Kate. Run all you fucking want—”

The bow snapped and this time the arrow was coated in wolfsbane, this time it was Derek who howled, shifting and snarling at the poisonous fire that seared through his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how long he lost himself to the pain, but when he came back to himself Kate had left and Stiles eased him back to the present with gentle words. 

“Come on, buddy, breathe with me.” Derek obeyed as tears fell from his lashes. Stiles’s heartbeat weakened with each passing minute but his voice never hinted at the loss. “You got this.” Stiles insisted and all Derek could smell was blood. “I know you do.”

Stiles’s heartbeat didn’t waver, though Derek supposed it no longer mattered. The sun burned Derek’s tear-stained face and he felt Stiles’s breathing become shallow. He waited for Stiles to continue, but he never did. He went slack, the rope pulling tight across Derek’s chest as Stiles slumped forward. Derek let loose an ugly, broken sound and he needed to keep his mind clear, to ignore the voice that insisted he should surrender to death. He needed to tell Stiles to keep breathing even if it hurt, to keep fighting for as long as he was able. 

He breathed, in for four, out of four, and when his vision cleared he saw a spot of red on the horizon… and it was getting closer. 

::::

_Give the water back to the farms! Call your Congressman to lessen water sent to LA!_

_Water for families, not for cities!_

_Pray for water._

_WE ARE DYING_

Old, decayed signs lined the sides of the I-5 the further they got from Los Angeles. The paint and font style were similar to propaganda posters from the fifties. Each sign marked another skeleton of a farm overtaken by the desert sun and sand. 

“This place used to be green.” Allison spoke as she loaded her assault rifle. “Green for as long as you could see and,” her lips twisted into a disgusted grimace, “an endless smell of flowers.” 

Lydia glanced at Allison with a mixture of confusion and fear. Allison was younger than both of them but the knowledge and strength she held was nothing to trifle with. Peter would get answers as soon as Stiles was safe. His saliva soured because—

What was Stiles to Allison? If they were colleagues, friends… did he have as much knowledge as her? And if he did… if Stiles wielded that same intelligence from the start—then everything—everything Peter had shared with him from their first words, first smile—all of that would have been—

“Are you ready?”

It hadn’t just been Stiles, but Derek as well. His nephew, as far as Peter had bothered keeping track, had joined the army for several tours. The information flared, too bright and too abstract to try and piece together just who they were and what the three of them had to do with each other— _if_ they had anything to do with each other at all. He began to recall each and every interaction he had with Stiles, every question, every touch that had seemed organic, a push and pull that fit them from the start—but what if Stiles had _known_ exactly what to say and how to say it?

_“Peter.”_ Allison’s brittle and stern voice yanked Peter back to her. “Are you ready? I’ll need for you to take the drugs from me on my command, understood?”

Peter nodded. 

“Yes.” 

Allison turned her eyes to the road and Peter felt a new rage overtake him. He’d help her, he would, but after—after he would dig his claws into the back of her neck and get the answers for himself. He met Lydia’s eyes and his affection for her grew when he saw the same anger reflected back at him. 

“There!” Allison pointed to a blot on the horizon, a faraway barn that, like the countless others, had decayed due to drought. “That’s it!” 

Allison gripped her rifle in her lap and the flat sands didn’t have an exit for miles. Lydia took a deep breath. 

“Hold onto something!” 

Peter grabbed the side of his red Pagoda and Allison gripped his shoulder. Lydia took the car off road and sprayed sand and gravel behind them. The rough transition made Peter bite his tongue. Lydia pumped the gas with a whispered, “fuck-fuck- _fuck_.” 

The taste of blood blossomed on his tongue and Lydia kept them soaring forward until the blot was a very real barn and Peter could _see_ Derek, bleeding and bound to a chair—

Allison stood, her rifle steady at her shoulder. 

“Peter, _now_!” 

Peter roared, dug his claws into Allison’s thigh, and _pulled_. His pupils dilated and his mouth fell open. The eerie sensation of chemical imbalance made his skin crawl. The already bright sun got worse, his heartbeat skyrocketed, and sticky sweat broke out all over his body. He felt Allison’s muscles relax and her tremors stopped all at once. Peter forced his neck to turn to see their rapid approach. 

Kate Argent ran out into the sun, her lips twisted with a bow and arrow in her grasp. Lydia turned the wheel and the smell of blood and wolfsbane assaulted Peter’s nose. 

Far away, there was an approaching thunder that crested and rolled in the sky. A deep thud-thud- _thud_ like approaching drums. Kate screamed, a shrill war cry, and Allison squeezed off three shots. 

He felt each one, each rock of Allison’s body, and he closed his eyes. Time slowed to a honey-lazy drip. The amphetamine pain hummed in his veins and the wind caressed his cheeks and hair. He wanted to stay in this artificial peace where he never had to open his eyes. 

Lydia cursed and slammed on the brakes. Peter’s claws were torn from Allison’s thigh and the faux tranquility shattered. 

::::

Finstock would never forget studying the new recruits as they ran through drills. They moved as a unit and Finstock knew most of the senior Special Agents would gladly draw a name at random for a partner. Some may narrow the pool down by colleges or military service, but not Finstock. He watched his pick vault effortlessly through the obstacle course, his movements efficient and elegant. He didn’t seem too friendly with his other recruits but Finstock saw how the kid’s eyes tracked their movements and how he caught one young man when he slipped on the third steep hill. 

According to his file, Derek Hale had served three tours overseas and earned numerous medals. His background was not prestigious and his family had no history of military service. Derek was the first of his kind. 

“Have you decided on a recruit?” Harris, one of the most repugnant Special Agents Finstock had to interact with, sneered his way to Finstock’s side. “We have a good selection this year.” 

“Derek Hale.” 

His pick in question turned his head slightly as if he heard Finstock, but that was ludicrous. Finstock was well over one hundred feet away and his voice would have been lost in the chaos of the obstacle course. Harris hummed with feigned interest. 

“Oh? He’s… standard.” 

Finstock swallowed the endless sea of retorts that churned on his tongue. Instead he watched Derek like a hawk. 

“He looks like he has a great sense of humor.” There was a loud clatter as Derek tripped and fell. Finstock chuckled and hit Harris’s shoulder. “See? Perfect comedic timing.” 

Finstock left Harris behind with the other mundane, snickering Agents. 

Finstock waited until after dinner to find Derek outside of the mess hall. The recruit straightened his back at Finstock’s approach. Finstock smiled, wide and crooked. 

“Hale.” Finstock recognized Derek’s steely expression, trained obedience and indifference. He knew he’d take great pleasure in undoing all that brainwashing bullshit. “I’m Special Agent Finstock and you are my new partner.” 

Derek gave him a stilted nod. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Finstock kept his hands in his pockets so he didn’t touch Derek. He’d seen how he acted around the other recruits and while subtle; his aversion to touch was easy to see once Finstock knew to look. Finstock jerked his head to the side. 

“Come on, let’s go for a walk and swap stories. It will be just like a campfire but no marshmallows.” 

Derek had been so rigid back then, and while most Agents like Harris would argue that Derek was still stern, quiet, and unapproachable, Finstock knew better. It took months of silent reassurance before Derek cracked a smile at one of Finstock’s jokes. Finstock had paraded around for weeks with a smug grin that made the tips of Derek’s ears flush pink. 

As soon as Chris Argent flew Derek out to the West Coast Finstock only took assignments in California. He knew more than a few people raised their eyebrows and that it could hurt his chances at becoming Director, but that goal was trivial when compared to Derek’s wellbeing.

He was on base in his temporary-closet-of-an-office, between assignments in northern California when a withheld number called his personal cell phone. Finstock swiped his thumb across the screen and pressed his phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” 

_“Bobby, it’s Chris Argent.”_ Finstock sat forward, the veil of boredom torn from him. No one called him Bobby except his mother, and to hear it coming from Chris Argent’s lips made his skin crawl. _“I need your help. Do I—do I need to give you moment to find privacy?”_

“No.” Finstock sprang up to close the door. “You’re fine. What can I do for you?” 

As it turns out, there was _a lot_ Finstock could do for the elusive Chris Argent. A small, sinister part of him was elated that this would make Chris Argent owe him a _favor_. Finstock’s teeth were on edge when Chris stammered. 

From a man like Argent it was the equivalent of blubbering. 

_“M-my daughter is on her way now, but she’s not—she’s running on fumes.”_

Finstock grabbed his duffle and jogged out of his office, his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. 

“Do you know the extent of the damage?”

_“No.”_ Chris drew in a hollow breath. _“I’m sending you the coordinates.”_

Finstock disconnected the call. He grabbed his silver aviators out of his duffle. The reflective lenses projected _fuck off_ with every gleam. 

“Greenberg!” The analyst jumped up from whatever paperwork he was working on. “Get your shit together and get a team ready, we’ve got an assignment, _top priority_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. So sorry it took so long guys, holidays make everything crazy. I finally got this written. This is my longest chapter yet by about 100-200 words. Yay! I hope to wrap this up in 2-3 more chapters depending. Anyway, please let me know if you like it, hate it, or don't feel anything from this. All comments and criticisms welcome.


	9. Silence between Heartbeats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter peeked inside and saw that all the cookies were broken. For the first time in weeks Peter felt a genuine smile bloom along his lips.

No stars shone above DC. 

John shivered, his eyes darting away from the sky that had been wiped clean by light pollution as he followed the boy (“I’m, uh, I’m Naveed.”) down streets and crosswalks. Cities always put John on edge, the lack of nature, the _abundance_ of cars, asphalt, and people—he couldn’t fathom settling down in a place like that. 

Stiles had only applied to city schools and with every flat, “What did you think,” he’d ask John—John wouldn’t answer. 

“Stiles was one of the speakers on my tour when I was a junior in high school. Geez,” Naveed smiled and he was so _young_ , John wondered if Stiles smiled like that. “Going back a ways, but it’s not something you forget. He was just so _cool_.” 

The streets got darker and narrower. John cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. 

“Cool, huh?”

Naveed turned to look at John over his shoulder, his expression pinched before he quickly whipped his head back around. His shoulders rose, not a lot but enough to make the Sheriff’s stomach tighten. 

Dead grass hung limp between the cracked steps that led to Naveed’s apartment. They had to climb two more creaking flights until they made it to Naveed’s cramped studio. 

“Sorry about the mess.” 

Naveed kicked some clothes to the side, color rising in his cheeks. Movie posters lined the walls and John felt severely out of place. He lingered by the door as Naveed set his bag down on his bed. 

“Living here you quickly learn to save _everything_ , the more copies the better.” Naveed glanced at the Sheriff, his lips twitching up into a brief, less bright smile. “I enrolled early so I was given an email that was grouped in with the Neuroscience Department email—and one day Stiles sent out his thesis at three forty-five in the morning. It was full of typos and missing citations—but it was unlike anything I’d ever seen.” 

Naveed dropped to his knees and crawled under his desk. The walls were thin and down the hall a couple argued loudly. Further down someone watched a college basketball game. Naveed grunted and loosened a board underneath the desk with an awkward grunt. He wiggled out covered in dust. Clutched in his fingers was a thick stack of papers held together with a binder clip. 

“I printed it out because I wanted to read it while I was at school and by the time I came back home the university had come, told my parents they’d had a security breach, and replaced all of our computers. They did that with every device that the email went out to—no fuss, just replacements. By the time I got to American University, Stiles was already gone.” Naveed paused and dusted off his clothes. “Most of the other people in the program had the same idea I did, so we made copies and hid them.” 

The Sheriff snorted, he had to so that his heart didn’t stop. 

“What,” he laughed so loud that Naveed recoiled. “My son uncovered a conspiracy?” 

“No— _no_.” Naveed’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what makes it so strange. It’s a straightforward thesis on lying, from our personal lives, advertising, and societal traditions. The most offensive thing about it was some swearing and a few typos—but it was _treated_ like something blasphemous.”

Naveed held the thesis out to John. His hand shook. John took it quickly, wiping off the dirt and skimming the first few pages. It was just as Naveed said, a clear thesis—nothing outlandish about it. The buzzing tightness that had grown in John’s chest lessened. 

“Is Stiles okay?”

John needed to call a car and get on a plane to Los Angeles. He was burning on fumes, but he’d stay up for weeks if he had to. His first thought was _someone paid a lot to hide Stiles’s thesis._ The immediate, much louder thought came right after: _Now someone pays Stiles a lot._

“I don’t know.” John forced the honesty past his tight throat. “Do you mind if I keep this?” 

Naveed shook his head. 

“Sure. I have others.”

“Thank you.” John opened the door and glanced back at the kid, his dark eyes wide. “Thank you, Naveed.”

The thesis was heavy, tucked under John’s arm as called a cab. 

 

::::

Echoes of amphetamines danced through Peter’s veins. Despite his claws being freed from Allison’s thigh he couldn’t shake the feeling of hypersensitivity, desperation, and the terrible lack of control and awareness. It haunted him, its whispering madness lingering as orange dirt clung to his face. His skin itched, his pupils wouldn’t shrink despite the burning sun, and all he could hear was a heavy thudding that kicked up sand—

“—ter—Peter!” 

Lydia’s voice anchored him. All the scattered pieces of Peter finally flew back together. He wiped the grit from his eyes and face. The thudding hadn’t been a delusion. A fleet of helicopters rushed to them, some already hovering in place above them. He clawed through his seatbelt. Lydia wheezed and struggled against her jammed belt. He tore through the material. She coughed and pointed toward the barn.

“Hurry.”

Peter followed her trembling finger to see Allison limping away. Peter squeezed Lydia’s shoulder, his affection for her burning bright as he gave chase. His legs still felt rubbery, his sweat sticky and cold. Funny, Peter thought as his shoes dug into the sand, how one’s priorities could quickly change. 

Without hesitating he ran past Kate’s body, all three bullets had hit their mark and she’d stopped breathing long ago. 

Allison’s heart was faint, minutes away from going out. Peter grabbed her shoulder; his claws out and ready to take the answers from her—

Allison whirled around and dug the butt of her rifle into his teeth as she fell. Peter toppled with her, spitting out blood as his teeth sewed themselves back into his gums. She kicked herself away and Peter had to get up—he had to get his claws into her before her heart failed. 

Behind him, Lydia shrieked. 

Peter turned and his blood went cold when he saw two men in swat gear had her pinned down on the car. Her cheek was mashed against the hot metal as they handcuffed her. The men disconnected from the ropes that they’d swung in from the helicopters—and it was _too much_. Peter heard the hiss of gloves on rope. 

He turned back to see Allison in the arms of a man wearing silver aviators and _FBI_ stamped across his jacket. His black hair was wild and when he grinned at Peter his white teeth were unusually big. 

All around them other agents dropped down, running toward the barn, to Kate’s body, to Derek. Peter heard them shouting but he couldn’t latch onto the words as the Agent’s unnaturally bright grin widened. 

“Easy, Peter.” Peter stared at his own beaten reflection in the man’s sunglasses. “We’ll take it from here.” 

Peter smelled electricity before he realized that the man had drawn and shot a taser. His body seized and he was finally released from the unending onslaught of questions and information—until all he had was darkness. 

::::

Any Agent who claimed to never panic was full of shit. Finstock heard it all the time, usually accompanied with puffed chests and slaps on the back. _Everyone_ panicked; it was just a matter of how a person _used_ their fear. 

Finstock felt his panic burning under his skin as he glanced away from Peter’s unconscious body. 

“I need a toxicologist, I need medics, and I need a fucking status report!” 

Greenberg ran up, eased Allison out of Finstock’s arms, and used a penlight to test her pupils. Before Finstock could yell his analyst spoke quickly as he checked Allison’s pulse. 

“I’m the most familiar with drugs on our team. Go check Agent Hale.” Greenberg, usually meek despite his large size, spoke confidently as Allison blinked up blearily at him. “We’ll slowly introduce depressants into your system to counterbalance the amphetamines you’ve been given. I need you to keep your eyes on me. Don’t go to sleep.” 

Allison Argent nodded, her knuckles white as she gripped Greenberg’s arm. 

“Yes, sir.” 

The fiery terror kept Finstock sharp, darting over the sands to—

“Sweet Jesus.” 

The medical teams gently removed the arrows— _arrows_ —that pierced Derek and Stiles together. Derek was soaked and sticky with blood. For a moment Finstock almost let the fire consume him. He dropped to his knees in time to catch Derek as he fell forward. 

Derek hit Finstock’s body with a wet _plop_ that made Finstock’s stomach clench. Stiles was whisked away to the helicopter as Finstock and other agents strapped Derek to a gurney. Finstock could feel Derek breathing, thank God. 

“Just hang in there.” 

Finstock didn’t have enough hands to apply pressure to the wounds as he and two other agents got Derek to the helicopter. Allison and Greenberg sat on the floor. Kate Argent was being zipped up in a body bag and Lydia Martin and Peter Hale were in a van with tinted windows. 

Greenberg stood when Derek’s gurney was locked into place. 

“I can stay on site.” 

Finstock could have kissed him—hell he would have married Greenberg, had three kids, and made him home cooked meals for the rest of their lives if he asked. Finstock swallowed. 

“Get Peter Hale and Lydia Martin back into the city. I’m sure the LAPD will be accommodating with space. Kate Argent’s body needs to get on ice right away—and I’ll call you.” 

“I got it.” 

Finstock blew out a long breath before he hit the pilot’s shoulder. 

“Let’s go!” 

Finstock sat next to Allison, mostly because his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Stanford’s hospital was the closest and the best bet when it came to the surgeries Stiles and Derek were going to need. 

Beside him, Allison hiccupped around her deep, regimented breaths. Tears rolled down her bruised cheeks. Finstock’s brain was wired for damage and containment, not comfort. She turned and caught his eyes. Her breath hitched and her hands clumsily found his, her fingers squeezing his palm. 

“My aunt—Kate—I think she’s killed others.” 

“There was no one else at the barn.” Finstock had to lean in close so he could hear her over the wind. “You got there in time, Allison.” 

_Barely_ , he didn’t say. Allison shook her head, the tears still flowing. The helicopter began its decent as Allison spoke in a world-weary voice a girl her age shouldn’t have. 

“That place used to be an orchard and garden. Every tree, every flowerbed—she gave them names. Family names. I a-always thought it was a f-funny thing she did.” She squeezed Finstock’s hand tight as the helicopter landed. “She was going to use Stiles and Derek to start the garden again.” 

Over his years of service at the FBI Finstock had seen just how dark the human race could be. It took a lot to surprise him, not that Finstock _wanted_ to be surprised. He fought the urge to recoil away from her as the hospital staff rushed to meet them. Before the staff could take Allison in, Finstock spoke low and fast into her ear. 

“I’ll get a map of the property and you will give me names of the people your aunt buried.”

Allison nodded even though Finstock hadn’t been asking. Derek was in surgery for one day, Stiles for two and a half, and Finstock was constantly on the phone with Greenberg. He sat next to Allison as she marked where flowers and trees used to thrive under countless names. 

Derek healed, Stiles was _finally_ out of critical condition, and Allison was in detox. Finstock had Greenberg deal with Peter and Lydia while the old Argent farm turned into an excavation site. Forty bodies had been found and they hadn’t covered a quarter of the property. 

Finstock felt the stress weigh down his body, making his wrinkles deepen and his grey hairs turn white. When he wasn’t on the phone with his team or on his laptop to write briefing after briefing—he was slumped over in a chair by Derek’s bed. He’d just fallen asleep around three in the morning when he felt fingers gently tangle in his hair. 

He jerked awake, his spine protesting at the fast movement. His partner’s eyes flickered over Finstock’s face. His fingers dragged down Finstock’s cheek and jaw before his hand flopped down on the hospital bed. 

“You look like shit, Finstock.”

“Gotta be honest, Derek, I feel like shit.” Despite the knowledge that the worst was over, tears dropped from Finstock’s lashes. Finstock clumsily rubbed his eyes. “I missed you.”

Derek sniffed, tears twinkling at the corner of his eyes. He sat up and froze. He yanked the sheets aside to run his hands over the bandages on his stomach. He lifted the gauze with quivering fingers only to see smooth skin underneath. 

His eyes widened and Finstock had to keep wiping his eyes even as he spoke. 

“It’s crazy, the wonders of holistic medicine. A burned blue flower can do wonders,” he coughed around a laugh, “you know, for the right person.”

Strong fingers closed around Finstock’s wrists and _pulled_. 

He could get punched. It would be fair. Finstock never knew how to bring it up once he realized what made his partner so unique. Werewolves weren’t exactly an inane conversation topic. Finstock was abrasive on a good day, he couldn’t imagine trying to articulate the, “I know what you are and it’s no big deal, dude.” 

Derek didn’t punch him. He pulled him into a tight hug, his breath stuttered and hot against Finstock’s neck. It took some awkward maneuvering to get comfortable and he ended up straddling Derek’s thigh and just let himself be held. Derek’s shuddered, pushing closer and taking deep, uneven breaths. Finstock let his fingers drag down the notches in Derek’s spine.

“Stiles is going to make it. Allison is on the way to recovery as well.” Derek let out a broken, relieved noise and squeezed Finstock tighter. “Chris Argent called me and we got there just in time. He called me _Bobby_ , I nearly pissed myself.” 

Derek laughed, thick and laden with tears, but Finstock would take what he could get. 

“Thank you.” 

Finstock rested his chin on top of Derek’s head. 

“Greenberg really came through. I might have to marry him just to even the score.” Finstock smiled when Derek chuckled. “Speaking of marriage, I wish you’d been conscious when Chris came. I thought he was going to kiss me! And not just a peck—like a love-magic-slow-motion kiss.” 

He felt his heartbeat kick up at the memory and heat pickled his ears. Derek smiled against the base of Finstock’s neck. 

“You should go for it. Ultimate power couple.” 

Finstock laughed until he was hoarse—until he wasn’t falling and could finally breathe. 

::::

Allison’s heartbeat thudded steadily against Chris’s fingers. She slept, curled over in her chair so that her cheek rested on her father’s shoulder. They both had their chairs pulled up to Stiles’s bed. 

For decades Chris only lived for his family. Every breath he took was for Allison and it was easy to let the rest of the world fall away. If he’d been more present, more aware—he could have seen what his sister had become. Chris breathed in time with Allison, who breathed in time with Stiles. 

Between heartbeats Stiles opened his eyes. 

His breath hitched and he struggled to sit up. Allison was on her feet in a flash, pulling Chris with her. It took the two of them and Stiles had to bite down screams as they propped him up. Stiles pressed his palms to his eyes. 

“Where’s Derek?” 

“He’s fine, Stiles.” Allison squeezed his hands. “He’s in his room. Finstock is going to need a few minutes with him.” 

Incredibly, Stiles cracked a smile and Chris could see the blood between his teeth. 

“At least.” Stiles ran his hands down his chest and picked idly at the bandages. His breaths were shallow since every inhale pulled at his stomach. “What’s my estimated recovery time?” 

“Total?” Allison smiled, her lips cracked. Her bruises had faded to a sickly yellow-green. “Four months with physical therapy.” 

Stiles smirked and he wheezed out a wispy chuckle. 

“Fuck that. I’ll do it in three.” 

A knock on the door made them all turn. Chris got up, ignoring the static in his legs. He opened the door to see Derek, fully dressed like it was just another day. Finstock lingered behind him, staying outside as Derek stepped in. Stiles gasped, then swore because of the pressure it put on his chest. He opened his arms. 

“I want hugs,” Stiles crowed, “the whole gang is here and I want—” 

Chris let out a long breath as they all moved to obey. It should have been awkward, four people trying to embrace each other at once. It was like sinking into a bath after a long day—effortless. Chris’s cheek rubbed against Stiles’s shoulder, Derek’s arm looped around Chris’s waist, and he felt Allison’s breath on his forehead. 

He realized that he now breathed for four. 

There was plenty of mess to clean up; there were plenty of loose ends. Hanging in the closet was Peter Hale’s leather jacket stained with blood and arrow holes. There was the matter of how Stiles’s voice cracked when he’d been searching Peter’s house _before_ he found the secret room.

Stiles pulled back and hands cupped Derek’s face. 

“Good to see you, grumpy.” Stiles laced his fingers with Allison’s then Derek’s. “We should—”

Another knock echoed. All four of them turned to stare at the door, none of them wanting to leave the bubble of _victory_. They’d survived, they’d brought justice, and they were ready to go home. Chris knew they were riding the addicting rush of adrenalin and numbing relief. They deserved more time in that place, that false paradise, but the knocking persisted. 

Chris pulled away from Derek. When he opened the door Special Agent Finstock stood with a pinched expression. He whispered but they all heard his words. 

“Stiles’s father is here.” 

Just like that, their ecstatic peace was over. 

::::

Wake up. Take a shower and brush your teeth. Go to the gym. Exfoliate. Moisturize. Accessorize. Go to work. Smile. Laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. Go back to the gyn. Shower. Moisturize. Repeat. Keep repeating until the distress fades to static prickles just below the skin. The trick was to treat the routine as scripture, and in its guidance Peter Hale would be led to salvation. 

Peter stayed with Lydia for two weeks. He’d taken one step into his apartment before he’d run out—the scent of _Stiles-and-Peter_ so strong he couldn’t remember what he’d smelled like _before_. Lydia, his angel, had cleaned up and closed his secret room. She packed him a suitcase as he dry-heaved next to his car, bitter saliva hanging from his lips in sticky strings. 

He stayed with Lydia because there was nowhere else for him to go because—

_“So sorry for the wait,”_ the FBI Agent had said after Peter and Lydia had been in a holding cell for a day and a half in Weho. He was a large man but had a soft, likeable face even with the odd, ugly scars that marred his lower lip. _“I’m Agent Greenberg with the FBI,”_ he said as though the letters weren’t clearly marking his sleeves and back. _“It’s been a hectic forty-eight hours. I’m sure you have questions.”_

It was Saturday and Peter should be at the gym. Instead he lazed in Lydia’s bed. She turned, her arm resting on his chest. Her phone chirped from the night table and she groaned. 

“That will be the cleaning crew.” 

Peter yawned. 

“Can’t we just tell them to do it again?”

“ _No_.” Lydia rolled her eyes and sat up. She pulled on Peter’s nightshirt. “They’ve done deep cleaning three times now.” Peter pinched her side and soon they chased each other around the house. For a moment Peter could pretend that he was happy—that he’d always been happy. Lydia panted, out of breath in the kitchen. Her brows furrowed. “If it’s too soon—”

Peter waved away her concern. 

“It’s time.” He stood and ignored the way his legs shook at the thought of going home. “I can’t stay here forever.” He winked. “People will talk.” 

He took his Pagoda and left Brentwood, driving back to Larchmont. Peter should be at a café getting a seasonal drink but instead he was sliding his keys into his door for the first time in weeks. He let the door swing open with a long _creak_. He took a deep breath and could only smell cleaning chemicals. 

Peter smiled. It was _perfect_.

He showered in his bathroom that smelled like no one. He slept in sheets that smelled like no one. He got dressed the next morning in clothes that smelled like no one and went for a run. 

_“Is Stiles okay?”_

Peter asked because he had to, his body and mind ached for the answer. Agent Greenberg’s lips pressed into a thin crinkled line. 

_“Stiles will be fine, but that leads to what I need to tell you two.”_ Peter ran down the familiar streets that now seemed alien and isolated. He ran until his legs burned, until his chest heaved, until his throat was too tight. _“He’s a valuable contractor to the FBI and when we depart it will be under the agreement that you have no knowledge of him.”_

Peter ran until he was out of breath in front of the bakery. 

His shirt was soaked with sweat. His hand hovered over the door handle and his heart thundered wildly when he pushed forward.

The Bakery Betas froze, covered in sticky bits of sugar, coconut oil, and flour. Peter desperately wanted for them to be magically transported to years before, back when he’d raise the hairs on the back of their necks. Oh, how they would have fun, exchanging pithy barbs and empty threats. When Peter thought back to those times it was as though book pages were flipping backwards to a foolish, naïve beginning. 

The Bakery Betas didn’t snarl or glare at him. Boyd avoided his gaze and Isaac’s eyes welled with tears. Peter almost fled, but Erica’s familiar stern frown was a welcomed comfort. 

“Come on,” she gestured to a few chairs outside of the window, “let’s go outside.” 

It was barely seven in the morning and they had the entirety of Larchmont to themselves. Fog clung to the pavement and the wind chased chills across their skin. 

Erica brought out white rose tea in thick, ceramic mugs. It was too hot but Peter drank it anyway. The pain helped him focus as Erica took a deep breath. 

“A man came to the bakery the other day and replaced all our computer equipment. He told us that… we had never employed him.” Peter knew that the _him_ hadn’t been referring to the Agent. “Once his phone number was erased we couldn’t find him on Facebook or Instagram. It really is like he was never here.”

Peter knew the feeling. He remembered how heavy his stomach had felt when Agent Greenberg had returned his phone only to have any trace of Stiles erased down to the very first text message. One day Stiles had been in their lives and the next he’d been meticulously removed. 

Every morning there was a news update about the massacre at the old Argent farm and bodies were continuously dug out of the sand. The assistants gossiped about it, some with sadistic thrill, others with shallow sympathy. Miriam MacGuillis had sent a newsletter once the story broke and Peter’s innocence stopped being a solitary truth and became a universally known fact. 

“I’m sorry.” Peter didn’t know what was worse, hearing the first apology from Erica, or her sudden tears. “I’m sorry we treated you so badly.”

She wiped her eyes roughly, looking so young and clumsy just like Derek had been before the fire. Peter had received all kinds of gifts in the mail from Packs all over the world, endless apologies in the form of bottles of wine, cheeses, and money. _Our condolences_ the cards said, and Peter didn’t believe any of them—except Erica. 

“Kate Argent is dead.” Peter had to keep reminding himself that she had in fact died. Just not by his hands. He swallowed. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Years ago that had been true. Kate’s death would have made it all worth it and Peter would be happy. Except now she _was_ dead and Peter felt adrift. Erica said nothing and they drank their tea in silence as the farmer’s market opened across the street. 

People began to come out, rubbing sleep from their eyes and buying kale for a new smoothie recipe they were just dying to try. The world kept turning and people were happy with the day-to-day distractions. Erica stared at them, removed just like Peter. He had a feeling all the Bakery Betas found it impossible to immerse themselves in previously routine pleasures. 

“So…” Erica cleared her throat. “Are you going to look for him?”

Peter frowned, his breath hitching in his chest. It sent his last sip of tea down the wrong pipe. He coughed, his eyes watering. Erica didn’t touch him and waited until he glanced at her with wide eyes. 

“You just told me how you were politely and firmly told to forget about him. I was given the same warning.” 

Erica’s shoulders slumped and she gathered their mugs. Peter told himself that being naive would only hinder her—that he was doing her a great service. 

“Right.” She turned her face away to hide her expression but it didn’t matter. Peter smelled the fresh tears. “Of course.” 

He gave her a few minutes to recover before he followed her inside. Erica’s eyes were dry and she held out a bag of chocolate chip cookies. 

“On the house, just for today.”

She gave him the bag. Peter peeked inside and saw that all the cookies were broken. For the first time in weeks Peter felt a genuine smile bloom along his lips. 

::::

Summer arrived and Peter took Lydia to New York City like he promised. They went for work related purposes for the first week, but the following two were pure leisure. Gardens, art galleries, shops, and spas—so much that Peter was lightheaded. 

He soaked in the bath and rubbed green tea salt scrub on his arms, legs, and neck. The bathroom at the Four Seasons was a marble palace and Peter was tempted to call out of work for another week as he ducked his head under the water. When he resurfaced Lydia stood in a robe with a menu. 

“Let’s get room service.” 

Peter smiled and glanced over the options. 

“Have I ever told you that you have the most wonderful ideas, Lydia?” 

“Mm.” She sat on the edge of the tub. “Every day.” 

It was easy to lose himself in his work; in the luxuries he could buy. He lounged in his robes while Lydia ordered. Peter read his emails and Lydia surfed through channels. It was another good night of decadence and indifference. 

Three sharp knocks on the door made Peter blink and close his laptop. Lydia slid off the bed, tying her sash tight around her waist. 

“That’s awful fast for room service.” She frowned. “I’ll get it.”

She disappeared into the small hallway that led to the door. Peter listened to her breathe and adjust her robe once more before she opened the door. 

A chaotic crescendo erupted. Lydia’s heartbeat leapt, she staggered backwards, and she gasped unevenly to fill her seized lungs. Peter ran without thinking, rushing to her only to stop because Derek loomed in the doorway. 

Peter gripped Lydia’s shoulders and moved in front of her. Lydia huffed, her heart still racing as she crossed her arms. Derek stepped inside, closing the door behind him. 

“Do you have a moment to speak privately?” 

“Of course. We have room service coming.” Peter spoke like a snake, elusive and quick. “I hope you like scallops.” 

It was unnerving, seeing his nephew up close. He’d grown tall, filled out, and his grim expression seemed permanently etched onto his face. He strode to the living room. Lydia stayed close to the hallway while Peter slid into a loveseat. 

Derek glanced at Lydia uneasily. 

“Unc—Peter, you and I—”

“Lydia stays.”

The muscle in Derek’s jaw tensed. He sighed and Peter felt his chest clench because Derek, his little nephew who would always be out after rain storms to chase frogs, had never looked more morose. 

“There’s not much I can tell you but I’ll do my best. I don’t have much time, so just listen.” 

Derek’s shoulders squared off like he was staring down the barrel of a gun and not his uncle. 

::::

Floral air blew over the Beacon Hills Country Club and reception area. Delicate lights hung in careless ropes that cast mesmerizing patterns on the beautiful flower bouquets. 

Stiles stepped out of his Uber dressed in a fitted deep green suit with subtle gold threading. 

He stroked through the cold breeze, past people he might have recognized. The main lobby of the country club wasn’t full, and various guests were draped in drunken piles across chairs, laughing uproariously. Stiles adjusted his cufflinks, relishing the familiar thrill of eyes being drawn to him, his style—his meticulously thought out image and posture. 

The exhausted bartender eyed Stiles warily, hoping he wasn’t a new wedding reception guest who needed to catch up to everyone else’s inebriation. Stiles winked at him. _No need to worry, buddy._

“Oh my God, _Stiles_?” 

Stiles turned just in time to catch Melissa McCall’s tight embrace. He closed his eyes and spun her around until they parted with a grin. She was still beautiful, still _Scott’s mom_ just like Stiles remembered. She had a few more wrinkles and grey hairs at her temples, but she was a stunning reflection right out of Stiles’s earliest memories. 

“Good to see you, Mel. You look great.” 

Melissa rolled her eyes affectionately, her cheeks pink. She squeezed his arm, then took a step back to look at him in full. 

“Look at you. You’ve gotten so _tall_.” 

“Well, I think the shoes are giving me a bit of lift.” 

She hit his arm, her smile wide and bright. 

“Oh, quiet. It’s a good look on you… and it’s good to see you.” 

“It’s good to see you too.” Stiles swallowed any tightness that threatened to close his throat. “Do you know where Scott is?” 

She pointed him in the direction of the outside reception area and patio. Sure enough, an abundance of guests were there. Stiles strode off the patio onto the groomed grass and bits of turf. He left the cheerful merriment behind until he found Scott and his wife Kira. 

Stiles knew everything Facebook could tell him about Kira. She was cute, sweetly awkward, and she met Scott when she ventured into the vet with a new puppy and a load of questions. 

It was simple and sweet—something Stiles had never been. He saw Scott, tall and muscular in his tuxedo and his steps faltered, the breath knocked out of his lungs because it had been so long. Scott had grown and Stiles hadn’t seen any of it. 

Scott turned around. There was a pause—long enough where Stiles thought maybe the invitation had been out of pity, that maybe he shouldn’t have come. Scott stared with his mouth agape and cold sweat gathered at the back of Stiles’s neck until Scott broke out into a run. 

Scott hugged him, hard enough that Stiles didn’t need to fake his wheeze. 

“Oh my God.” Scott picked him up, his nose buried in Stiles’s neck. Stiles hung on for dear life. “Oh my God, oh my God.” 

Eventually Stiles’s feet touched the ground when Scott released him. Kira had walked over in the meantime, smiling as Stiles sucked in air. 

“Scott, I— oh hi.” He held out his hand to Kira. “I’m Stiles Stilinski.” 

“Kira Yuki—Kira McCall.” Kira smiled with a blush. She shook Stiles’s hand firmly. “I’ve heard about you. I’ll let you two catch up.”

Stiles kissed her cheek and smiled when she returned the affection. She drew Scott into a short but deep kiss. As she bounded away Scott stared after her with the same dopey smile Stiles remembered from when they were kids. Stiles rolled back onto his heels. 

“She’s wonderful, Scott.”

“Right?” 

They walked along the edges of the grounds until the lights and laughter of the reception were blurred whispers on the wind. Stiles couldn’t stop staring at Scott and he caught his old friend doing the same, trying to take in a face he thought he’d never see again. It was easier than it had any right to be, but there were still the unspoken shadows that they didn’t mention… like how Stiles’s father hadn’t been offered an invitation. 

“You look great, Scott. You’re a Disney prince.” 

Scott ducked his head, his cheeks red. He bumped their shoulders together. 

“Well, you’re really…” He trailed off and Stiles didn’t mind. He wasn’t easily defined and often when people tried they’d grabble with the same silence that Scott struggled to swallow. Stiles leaned against him. Scott sighed, and then gazed away from his wedding. “I understand now… why you had to leave. It’s been good for you, I can tell. You’re hip now.” 

Stiles laughed. 

“ _Hip_ —Jesus.” Scott shoved him with a grin. “It’s the suit, Scott.” 

“Shut up, you know it isn’t.” 

Yeah, he knew. 

Stiles itched to return to DC, to go back to Allison, Chris, and Derek to pool over the new recruits. He’d only been gone for a day and it felt like a year. It was the life he thrived in just as Scott thrived in Beacon Hills with Kira. Some nights, when his apartment was too dark and too quiet, Stiles wondered if there’d ever been a chance for him to be like Scott—honest and happy. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t your best man.” 

Stiles had to force the words out, his eyes blurring and his throat tight. Scott flinched and before Stiles could apologize, Scott’s warm hands gently squeezed his wrists. 

“It’s okay.” It _wasn’t_ because they’d sworn as kids. Stiles had practiced on the playground and used sippy cups as substitutes for champagne flutes. Scott shook his hands. “Stiles, it’s okay.” 

In reality Stiles knew Scott had a point. His career wouldn’t have given him the time needed. 

“Yeah. I know.” 

Scott let him go only to sling his arm around Stiles’s shoulder. They swayed in the dark. Scott took a few deep, anchoring breaths. 

“You know… I could still be your best man at your wedding. Not all hope is lost.” 

Stiles had been expecting all sorts of responses but not that. Hysterical laughter poured out of his lungs. Scott laughed too even though he didn’t get what made it so _funny_. Stiles laughed and laughed, he laughed until his stomach hardened and he felt like he was going to be sick. His legs were weak and salt water flooded his mouth. For a terrible moment Stiles thought he really was going to vomit. 

“Oh man.” Stiles smiled with a forced chuckle to disguise him having to swallow bile. “You’ll be the first and only one I’ll call, Scott.”

Scott smiled and Stiles smiled back. He danced with everyone, spun Kira until she giggled madly, and charmed whoever was willing to listen to his stories. 

Hours later most of the guests had left. Scott and Kira snuggled in a loveseat by the fire pit. Stiles lingered in the back and he cleared his hoarse throat, only to think better of it. 

Scott mostly likely thought Stiles had left. Stiles turned to walk back over the grass. He took the long way to the parking lot. 

The stars twinkled above him and the sound of wildlife rose in a roaring symphony. He stepped between trees and bushes, scrolling through his texts from Allison as he called and Uber. Within a few hours he’d be back in DC where the recruits and assignments waited for him—

His phone buzzed loudly in his hand. 

Stiles paused because this was his _private_ phone, one that Chris had gotten him specifically for only those in their inner circle. Stiles didn’t recognize the number, only that it had a Los Angeles area code. He could ignore it, he thought on the second buzz. He could let whomever it was go to voicemail. 

Maybe the telemarketers had finally found him and Stiles could tease Chris about his so-called untraceable phone. 

On the third buzz Stiles swallowed roughly and swiped his thumb to accept the call, his eyes burning as he pressed the phone to his ear. 

::::

Peter sat in the kitchen at an ungodly hour. He’d been staring at nothing, reheating coffee only to never drink it. He had a few missed texts from Lydia and he knew he had to respond soon or else she’d kick his door down. Peter clutched the business card his nephew had given him. 

_“I went to Stiles because I had no one else. Well, I went to Chris Argent, and Chris had Stiles.”_ Derek ground out the words with great effort, but the more he spoke the easier it came. _“It was a ruse to get close to you, because I had to know for sure that you’d been the one who—”_

Peter had his apartment cleaned. Stiles’s clothes were vacuumed sealed in storage, and Agent Greenberg had stripped his phone of any digital presence of Stiles. He’d made his routine; he’d been so close to erasing him. 

_“He still wears your jacket.”_

Derek had said and Peter felt like the floor had fallen away. Stiles, the way Peter knew him, hadn’t known what it meant to wear Peter’s clothes—but the real Stiles _did_ and was fully aware of the implications. Lydia had made a choked noise and crossed her arms while Peter felt limp. 

Peter spent the first two months in a miserable spiral longing for someone who wasn’t real. Every memory he had—it had been an elaborate play. Even sex—even the sloppy kisses and Stiles smiling as Peter shuddered around him—those memories sent Peter to his knees in the bathroom because even _that_ had been a part of it. _God_ , had Stiles even _wanted_ it? 

The clock ticked loudly on the wall, his phone on the table as Peter picked at the edges of the card. It didn’t have a design, just plain off-white cardstock with raised black text. It could be a cruel joke and Peter knew he should ignore it because he’d been making progress. 

_“His job is to convince people of the truth he wants them to believe. But there are things he can’t hide, like weight loss and insomnia.”_

Worry and distress twisted in Peter’s chest, every emotion he’d repressed came rushing back to the surface. Peter had to close his eyes to fight off the violent dizzy spells. He’d clenched his fists as his teeth cut his gums. 

_“Why are you telling me this?”_

Derek swallowed and then he did something incredible. 

He smiled, small and crooked, but it was a smile that lifted years off his face. It made Derek more familiar, closer to how Peter remembered his nephew. 

_“Because he’s my friend… and he deserves to be happy.”_

Peter unlocked his phone and his hands shook as he typed in the number that was printed under the singular name _Stiles_. He hit call and pressed his phone to his ear, not caring what time it was. 

It rang once.

 

Twice. 

 

Three times. 

Halfway through the fourth the line opened and Peter heard a shallow inhale and a familiar, hoarse voice float down the connection. 

 

 

_”Hello?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLLY. Thanks for the wait, guys. I was juggling other projects, some personal stuff, and I needed this chapter to go right. This is almost the end, just one more to go. I hope you guys enjoyed all the platonic touching and the threads coming together. Please, let me know what you think, even if you weren't a fan. 
> 
> A WONDERFUL thanks goes out to Julie, an incredible beta!


	10. Moments of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m flying out tomorrow to visit an old friend in DC. I was hoping for something that could survive the five hour flight.” 
> 
> He watched, fascinated and perhaps a bit heartbroken, as the Bakery Betas’ smiles fell into pure expressions of awe.

_There’s a short breath on the other line and the pause is long enough that he almost hangs up until he hears a familiar voice._

_“Stiles?”_

_In the middle of summer heat Stiles’s blood went cold. He felt like the air had been slowly pushed out of him, making sure every last molecule left his lungs. He was adrift and he gripped his phone so hard his hand cramped. He swallowed and his throat was so dry that Stiles winced in pain._

_“Peter? How--”_ How did you get this number, _is what Stiles should have asked. Instead the words caught in his throat and he coughed, his sharp suit and slick shoes unable to keep tears from stinging his eyes. “How… how are you? Are you okay?”_

::::

At Finstock’s announcement everyone sprang into action like a bomb had gone off. Chris told Finstock to stand at the door and not to let anyone in until his say-so, Derek obeyed to Stiles’s “Help me up, help me up,” and Allison dug through her bag for makeup while she whispered, “you don’t have to see him, Stiles, you understand that right?” 

“If he’s come all this way,” Stiles wheezed and Derek whined because Stiles’s stitches had reopened, “he won’t go home until he sees me.” 

_Guilt and duty._

Gentle hands gripped Stiles’s face. He closed his eyes as Allison patted blush onto his cheeks. 

“Bite your lips for me.” He did, and she ran chapstick over them. She wiped the clammy sweat from his forehead and applied a light cream to take the grey away from his skin. She rubbed her thumb over his cheek and when he opened his eyes he saw that her smile was less strained. “There, you look… suitable.” 

Stiles laughed despite the flares of lightning-white pain it sent down his abdomen.

“Damn, Allison, you sure know how to make a guy feel handsome.” Derek patted Stiles’s fresh bandages gently and Stiles looked down at his ratty, blood stained shirt. “I need a new shirt.” 

Derek stripped out of his own immediately and helped get Stiles’s arms through the right holes. The light blue fabric covered his face and for a brief moment he felt as though he were eight years old again, hiding under the covers because he had no one left to go to when he had nightmares. With a light tug, Stiles was freed and returned to the hospital room. 

Blood roared in his ears and Stiles clenched his fists. 

“I’m ready.”

He wasn’t, but he didn’t have a choice. Derek and Allison lingered and Stiles knew if his lips so much as wobbled that they’d barricade the doors. Stiles held his chin up and kept his breathing even so that they were able to leave with the quiet understanding that as soon as his father was gone, they would return. 

The clock ticked loudly on the wall. Stiles’s chest was tight and he felt sweat gather on the back of his neck. The doorknob turned and within the span of just a few moments Stiles was face-to-face with his father for the first time in over four years. 

He had more grey hair and the circles under his eyes were new and dark. His wrinkles were deeper and when he met Stiles’s eyes the mess of _guilt-anger-love-loathing_ that washed over him was the same. Stiles clutched his sheets tightly as his father’s eyes assessed him, always searching for damage first before looking away, like it hurt to look at Stiles for too long. Only this time...the Sheriff returned his gaze resolutely to his son. 

Stiles flinched at the squeal that filled the room when the Sheriff dragged one of the chairs over. His knees were _shaking_ , hard enough for Stiles to _see it_ , and he fell into the chair. He buried his face in his weathered hands, his shoulders shuddered and Stiles could barely reach him without pulling his stitches. Stiles’s fingers clumsily bumped his father’s shoulder, and soon his hand was captured in his father’s grasp.

Instincts made him flinch and he had to fight to keep still, to not yank his hand away when his father squeezed. 

“Are you okay?” 

Stiles’s head throbbed, his stitches burned, and more than anything he just wanted to get Peter’s jacket and wear it. He wanted to lash out like an angry teenager, to snarl, _“What does it fucking matter,”_ but he kept silent-- only Stiles wasn’t sure if he was quiet due to maturity or the fact that yelling would only make his father stay longer. 

“Yeah.” He swallowed, his fingers jerking in his father’s grip. “I’m fine.”

His dad kept his grip on his hand and dug around in the inside of his jacket. He pulled out a thick manuscript. Stiles’s mouth went dry when he recognized his thesis, word-for-word, after all these years. Finally, he found the strength to pull his hand out of his father’s grip. 

Stiles sat back, his muscles wailing at the movement. He saw his dad’s bloodshot eyes and how his fingers clenched around air. He saw the same haunted _guilt and duty_ cover his father like a shroud. 

Something had spooked him, bad enough that he went digging around DC to find his son, after four years of being fine with the occasional text and phone call. 

“You don’t have to love me.” If his father had his thesis, Stiles knew that he’d read it. It was evidence, it was a clue, that somehow led him to the hospital where Stiles had been pulled from the precipice of death just a few days before. His father recoiled and he drew in a breath to reject it, but Stiles wouldn’t let him. “Dad,” his voice wobbled, “it’s okay.” 

His father had wanted children when he still had a wife who was alive and they were in love. He hadn’t asked to be a single dad. On one hand, Stiles wanted his father to feel his pain, when he had no one to turn to, had no one to tell him it was alright to cry, to be afraid-

Without being alone, Stiles wouldn’t be the person he is today. He hoped, desperately, that it was worth being the person Stiles turned out to encompass. 

“Stiles,” his father’s voice cracked and broke around his name, “I-I do still--”

His father grabbed his hand again. Stiles wondered if it was because of something he saw on television, on a show somewhere when someone is trying to have a touching moment. He wondered if he thought that because it worked on television, it would work now in the Stanford hospital. 

Misery twisted in the Sheriff’s muscles, it darkened his eyes, and Stiles squeezed his hand hard enough to get his father to meet his gaze. 

“Think about it really hard. Take time, meditate, and really think.” The tightness in Stiles’s chest that seemed to linger his entire life dissolved like sugar in water. “If you want to be my father, if you want to love me and if that is what makes you happy, then okay. We can talk about it. But I’m not going to hold you to it because it’s okay if you don’t.” 

The clock continued to tick on the wall, blood seeped through Stiles’s stitches, and tears streaked down the Sheriff’s cheeks. 

Much later, after the physical therapy, getting back into the recruiting groove, and starting a small herb garden with Rosa, Stiles did stretches in his apartment. 

He’d started off so minimalistic, yet now he had plants in the window, posters on the walls, and so many bookshelves that Stiles was thinking about moving extraneous furniture to storage. His breath fogged out in front of him, the winter chill unforgiving in the morning even as Stiles jogged in place to get his blood moving. He slipped easily into yoga and stretches and groaned when his back popped. 

Skype chirped on his laptop and Stiles accepted the incoming call. 

The face of a young woman appeared on his screen. She tamed her honey-bronze hair with a travel-sized brush and was dressed exactly the way Stiles had suggested. She yawned, which wasn’t a surprise seeing how, in her current time zone, it was four in the morning. 

_“I can’t wait to be back on the east coast. Do you know how hard it is to find decent pizza out here? Avocados are great, but sometimes I just want fucking pizza.”_

Stiles laughed, loud and full, and shook his head. 

“I’ll pass that onto Atlanta so he can take you out to Duccini’s once you touch down.” 

_“Oh my God.”_ She turned on an overhead lamp to get better lighting as she poured out a bag of makeup. She didn’t take long; brows, lashes, lips-- the bare minimum. _“I can’t wait. Even though the weather here is perfect I still miss you guys.”_

“You were only gone a week!” Stiles smiled when she rolled her eyes. She was so young and bubbly. He wondered if he had been the same when he was in her shoes. “To be fair, the team misses you too.” 

_“They damn-well better!”_ Stiles bit down a laugh at the phrase she’d picked up from Chicago, otherwise known as Shea. _“God… is that weird for me to say?”_ She paused, suddenly self-conscious. _“I mean, I know that us four are still new but it feels like…”_

She trailed off, no longer needing blush as her blood was providing it all on her own. The words never came to her, the words she was too afraid to say or the label she hesitated to put on her relationship with the fellow recruits. Stiles hoped that it was a word she didn’t know, or didn’t know the gravity of. 

Pack. 

To cover-up her moment of insecurity she fumbled to put on thick glasses with fake lenses. She stared at her reflection, then carefully picked at strands of her hair to add to her look of exhaustion. She did breathing and speech exercises along with Stiles. She double-checked that everything was packed in her carry-on. And lastly, she went over Stiles’s directions, wringing her hands only once before quickly lowering them to out of the camera’s view. 

He knew that she’d be nervous. This wasn’t a typical assignment and he had to be intentionally vague. Her trust in him, all the recruits’ trust in him, could be terrifying at times. 

“You got it down pat. Remember, the beauty about planes is that you don’t have to push a conversation. I’ve gotten most of my work done in the last five minutes as we’re deboarding than during the entire flight. If he sleeps, you sleep, if he initiates, you continue. And this isn’t-- just don’t stress out about it too much, okay, Philadelphia?” 

Stiles cringed inwardly, because without fail telling someone not to stress out would only increase their anxiety. Philadelphia smiled and hid her nerves well, so well that Stiles could easily convince himself that it hadn’t even manifested. 

_“You got it, boss!”_

She saluted with a dramatic wink and ended the video call. His apartment returned to its usual silence. Stiles continued his stretches and his chest swelled with the feeling of contentment. 

He checked his emails from the recruits, Allison, Chris, and weirdly enough some e-cards from Finstock. Scott sent him a Facebook message and tagged him in his wedding photo album. Kira sent him a friend request. 

He had one voicemail from his dad. 

Stile got dressed in dark jeans, black Chucks, and a cozy sweater. He pulled on Peter’s jacket and closed his eyes.

He knew that Peter’s scent had faded. It had been washed and painfully stitched back together by Stiles’s clumsy hands. He had to go over his stitches soon, he’d have Rosa check his handiwork. 

When he was alone he imagined that he could still smell Peter in the collar of the jacket. 

Dark spice, small smiles that weren’t entirely friendly, the taste of Thai takeout at two in the morning, the smell of reheated coffee, and the sound of pages turning in a book as they laid awake on a Wednesday night-- 

Stiles forced his eyes open and made sure his breath didn’t hitch no matter how tight his throat was. He kept breathing, slow and steady, until his eyes no longer burned. He grabbed a striking red scarf and methodically tucked it into his leather jacket. 

::::

_Peter was dizzy in his kitchen, laughing a tad hysterically. He struggled to get his giggles under control, not wanting to scare Stiles off. He choked them down, his body convulsing and for a worrying moment he thought he was going to throw up._

_Instead, he shook his head despite Stiles not being able to see him._

_“I guess… all things considering… I’m fine. Healthy. Alive.” He shook himself, more violently until his teeth clicked in his jaw. “I don’t give a shit about me, what about you? Are you alright?”_

_The other line crackled, and he heard the smile in Stiles’s voice. It wasn’t the smile he used at the bakery, or the one after sex, or the one he’d get when he found a book he’d searching for. Peter could hear it, the smile of Stiles when he was surprised that anyone gave a shit about him._

_Peter remembered how he’d let out this whisper of a breath, how he’d duck his head, and how Peter would silently vow to erase the doubt from Stiles’s mind however he could._

:::::

The constant beep and hums of heart monitors became a meditative mantra for Allison. Every noise was _I am still alive_ and _My heart has not burst in my chest_. She did her best to remain calm as Finstock’s eyes bored into hers. 

“We can stop,” he forced the words past his large teeth and his eyes shone in a way that said _we really fucking can’t_. “We don’t want to strain your heart.” 

The map of Kate’s farm was laid out over Allison’s legs in the hospital bed. She shook her head, eyes glued to her heart monitor. She still had a few more numbers to climb before she had to stop. She just had to stay calm. She took in deep breaths, and closed her eyes. 

_Be like Stiles… don’t let your heartbeat control you._

“No. I can do it.” 

She swallowed and her father, who sat beside her like a rigid statue, made an odd, aborted sound in the back of his throat. She trailed her shaking fingers over the map, describing flowerbeds, orchards, and the family names that went with them. She kept her voice steady, her breathing even, until the her fingers were on the edge of the map and the last name fell from her lips. Finstock had frantically transcribed her words and sent them over to his team. He lifted his gaze to hers. Fire burned behind them, savage, angry flames that burned for his partner who was still in surgery.

Her calm mask shattered and tears fell. Her breathing hitched painfully, her heart _ached_ in such a violent way it was alarming. She sobbed as her heart monitor wailed. Doctors came running. 

She knew her heart would never be the same. She knew it in the way the doctors would take her father outside, how he kept holding her hand, and how he never left her side for more than a minute. 

After the first few harrowing days she was able to keep track of her heartbeat with her watch. Once she was free to wander, she stuck with Stiles.

He grit his teeth through hours of physical therapy and stretched stitches. Even when he cried, he kept going until the physical therapist said, “very good, Stiles.” He wiped his tears and winked at her, patting a spot next to him on the bench. 

Allison couldn’t help but think of the boy she’d purposely bumped into, how fragile he’d been and how she’d been worried if he’d be able to live by the credence of the thesis he’d written. His breath had stunk of mouthwash and his red-rimmed eyes were puffy from hours of grief. His voice was washed out and when he had taken sips of his coffee his hands shook. But her dad thought he was worth the risk. 

Watching him now, she wondered how she’d ever had a doubt in her mind. 

“I said three months and I meant it.” 

He rested his sweaty head on her shoulder in the hospital courtyard. The sun was bright but the breeze was steady enough to keep it from being unbearable. Allison slipped her arm around Stiles, pulling him closer and he made a sound of agreement, shifting closer despite the pain it took to move. On the far side of the bench, draped on the arm, was Peter’s leather jacket. 

The interior had been permanently stained, the lining a muddy crimson due to the blood that had soaked through. Holes littered the back of it and when Allison looked at it she saw Peter’s blood stained mouth roaring around the butt of her rifle.

Stiles shivered when his sweat cooled and soon he pulled on that jacket. She expected him to lean back against her, but he remained separated, steeling himself before he turned to her. 

“I… Allison, I’d like to tell you something.” 

Funny, Stiles was pale, recovering, and his eyes were red-rimmed just like the first time she met him, yet at the same time he was completely different. He wasn’t just some kid with a good idea and better instincts. She drew in a steady breath and her watch said her heart was good. 

“Okay.”

He picked at the leather sleeves, his right arm lying over his abdomen, over the two holes Allison’s aunt put there. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever have romantic love. It didn’t seem practical to me. I mean, I had friends, that was always good enough, then school, then you guys and The Kindness of Strangers and,” he sucked in a long breath as tears clung to his eyelashes, “why would I need anything else after that? I had everything I didn’t know I wanted.” 

He squeezed the leather in his hands until it creaked. Before she could see his tears fall he covered his face, the movement so swift that Allison was sure he must have torn some stitches but he didn’t hint at any additional pain. 

“Stiles,” Allison had to work to get his name out, like it was covered in molasses, “Stiles, it’s--”

“It should have been enough.” 

He finally took his hands away from his face and he made an awkward, stilted motion like he wanted to hug her. Allison opened her arms and she pulled him close. They both took comfort in the feel of their breathing falling in sync with each other. Allison held him until his shudders stopped, until his tears dried. 

He whispered his final confession against her shoulder, three words, and Allison just held him tighter.

Stiles completed is physical therapy in three months like he promised, and eventually Allison’s face lost its queasy yellow and purple hues. She was able to walk tall and only had to monitor her heart during harsh exercises and periods of extreme stress. She rarely glanced at her watch to double-check. 

Her boots clicked on the tiles of the FBI building. Her bag swung over her shoulder and she held baker’s box in her hands, plain white with brown wax paper sticking out of the sides. She navigated the halls confidently until she made it to Finstock’s corner he’d carved out for himself. 

After all the commotion in Los Angeles Finstock got a promotion and a corner office. Greenberg also got a promotion which stationed him directly outside of Finstock’s office. It played like a comedy of errors. 

When Allison opened the door to their wing Greenberg stood immediately. 

“Oh, hi, Allison-”

“She’s not here to see _you_ , Greenberg!” Finstock shouted, the doors rattling. Greenberg, a man who was four inches taller than Finstock, shrank back and looked less like an FBI Agent and more like a mouse. Special Agent Finstock glowered from behind his massive desk. “Get in here.” 

Allison jogged in and closed the door behind her. Finstock’s office was loaded with ornate carpeting, antiques, and framed certificates of his achievements. It didn’t fit him at all in the slightest. He pinched the bridge of his nose as Allison gently set down the box on his desk. 

“Good afternoon, Finstock. Your office… sure has changed.”

Finstock kicked his feet rapidly against the bottom of his desk. 

“I fucking hate it! I get this nice promotion, I’m on track to be the head of the FBI in the next decade, and then they sit this buffoon out my door, and to top it all off they load me down with this--”

He waved his hand around violently, his mouth hanging open as words and curses exhausted him. Allison bit her lip.

“Trash?”

Finstock clapped his hand together once, the loud _smack_ of it echoing in his office. 

“Exactly! Trash! I fucking hate it.” Finstock got up with a glower and an animated flick of his wrists. His suit jacket was a better fit than usual, though he’d already worn a small hole into the elbow. Her father always said that everything about Finstock was a performance, a carefully thought out series of movements to disarm people. He’d changed the routine and Allison didn’t miss the careful way he touched her arm. “The next thing they’re going to make me do is shop at the Gap.” 

His lips moved quickly, around silent words. 

_How’s your heart?_

Allison elbowed him playfully. 

“Maybe some savory pastries will make you feel better. They had those rhubarb rolls you like.” 

_Still beating._

Finstock’s lips quirked into a smile. 

“That’s good.” Finstock let his fingers fall from her arm. “Glad to hear it.” He took out a roll and sank his teeth into it. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. Thank you.” He held out the box to her. “Take one for the road.” 

_Greenberg can lead you to the training grounds._

Allison took a cookie 

“Thanks, Finstock.” She turned and he shouted after her, “Hey, that’s _Special_ Agent Finstock to you!” She snorted and she brushed her fingers along Greenberg’s shoulders. He stood and they walked together. Allison swung her bag around so she could get a small bag for him. “I nabbed some extras for you.” 

Finstock preferred savory but Greenberg had the biggest sweet tooth. He made a noise of unrestrained delight and immediately dug in. His cheeks were stuffed with a strawberry jam donut when he opened the door to one of the training fields. New recruits ran along an obstacle course, and on the far side of the yard Stiles and Derek observed them. 

Allison broke away from Greneberg and ran to them. She leapt into Derek’s arms and squeezed him tight. He let his nose drift to her temple and his stubble scratched her cheek when he released her. She immediately went to Stiles and he lifted her up, laughing into her neck. 

“I think you gave some of the recruits a stroke.” Stiles giggled into her hair. “I saw four fall off the climbing wall.” 

Derek hid a laugh in his fist and disguised it as a cough. Allison settled between the two of them, Stiles’s arm slung around her shoulders while Derek bumped his hip against her. 

“I’ve picked out twenty, but Finstock said you should narrow it down to two.” 

Stiles rocked on his heels with his thumbs in his pockets. He watched the new inductees of the FBI sneak glances at the two people who were obviously not with the Bureau. 

“Well,” Stiles slogged through the worst southern accent Allison had ever heard, “all right then. Let’s get this rodeo started.” 

Allison laughed, high and uneven, and took the files from Derek and split them up. Derek left them, to direct the recruits to take their eyes off his two giggling friends. Stiles huffed his amusement quietly and leaned his head on Allison’s shoulder. She listened to his leather jacket creak, the threads holding the arrow holes a bright turquoise. 

She opened the first file and went to work. 

::::

_Beacon Hills had a few street lamps that lit Stiles’s lonely walk down rural roads. Cicadas were his guide as he ignored the ache in his arm that came from holding his phone to his ear._

_“I’ve… recovered.” He touched his stomach and chest, thumbing over the puncture wounds that lay just beneath his shirt. He loosened his tie and untucked his dress shirt, sweat making it stick to his back uncomfortably. He strained his ears to try and hear Peter, he wished he could see him, that he could read his expression. “Three months of physical therapy, and I’m as good as new.”_

_He heard Peter that time, a smothered noise that made the small hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck stand at attention. He slipped on gravel and reached out to catch himself on the guardrail._

_Stiles had a flight in under eight hours back to DC. Back to The Kindness of Strangers where he’d be building it towards something stronger, something permanent. And Stiles was eager to return, his skin buzzed with the the search for suitable candidates, he wrote up lesson plans, and Allison helped compile assignments. The more Stiles thought about the future, the more he felt as though he were a dancer in an old musical with sweeping, grandiose music._

_Stiles’s right hand tremored._

_“Peter, I--”_

_“Listen, Stiles--”_

_They both quickly stopped. Stiles heard Peter’s breath stammer down the line and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut._

::::

Laura and Derek had lived in a run-down apartment that was close to the train station that ran into the city. The complex was large and nothing was ever fixed in a timely manner. They both got up before sunrise to commute to the city to scrounge up money. 

Derek wore two sweaters and gloves as he checked the expiration date on their milk. It was that day, and he did a sniff test-- and hoped it would stay good to thicken their mashed potatoes. He hunched over their stove and started dinner as Laura twisted the keys in their door. 

He remembered that her nose was red from the cold and her cheekbones were too prominent. She wore a jacket with no lining and her nail polish was starting to chip. She’d been humming something under her breath and when she saw Derek she paused. 

“You’re early.” 

Derek remembered how her voice had aged. Laura used to be in the choir when they were kids, and his mom would always get teary-eyed when she’d perform a solo. Laura would bounce around the yard and sing at the top of her lungs, loud enough that it would make everyone join in, even Uncle Pe--

Laura hadn’t sung in years. 

“They let us go early on account of the holidays.” Derek slowly stirred the milk and their last lump of butter into the mashed potatoes. “But I got great tips.” 

She let her heavy bags fall to their couch and rolled her shoulders. She never picked up whatever song she’d been humming. Instead she dug in her purse and pulled out tupperware full of leftovers from her job. She nuked it in the microwave while Derek set the table. 

“Hey.” Laura nudged him and she smiled, thin but it still reached her eyes. “Merry Christmas.” 

It was a futile exercise to pretend that holidays had always been this way, with no heating, meager food, and an empty apartment. Derek rolled the food over his tongue despite not being able to taste it. He hadn’t been able to taste much of anything for years.

Hale holidays were always big events where the house would be full of family and friends. He would help his dad prepare ingredients all day while his mother got the house in order. Laura had been bubbly then, finding it easy to talk to guests and get everyone most comfortable. Every gathering was a feast, every story full of flavor, and every night full of dreams that lingered pleasantly. 

Derek washed Laura’s plate and pulled extra blankets from the closet. When he curled up on his bed on what would be his last Christmas with Laura, he dreamed of the past. He dreamt of being able to taste the food and hear the murmurs of his family even as he drifted off to sleep. He’d feel lips on his forehead and he’d know that he was safe. 

He jerked awake in the middle of the night because the blankets had slipped off and his teeth chattered. He heard nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and could only see his own breath fogging in front of him. 

Years later Derek helped Finstock make mountains of food starting at six in the morning. He wiped sweat from his forehead and he felt a bubble of relief burst in his chest when Finstock took a step back in the early afternoon. Finstock’s fingers were raw from delicately preparing Thai food. He’d been taking lessons and he _insisted_ it was broaden his horizons. Chris’s favorite food was Thai. 

“Who knew that measuring spices would be so hard?” Finstock whined and brushed his hands off on his apron. “I swear, their taste buds better die, that’s how good I want this to taste.” 

Finstock hadn’t just made Thai food. He’d broke out recipes that Derek had never seen, written on old, translucent paper where the writing was often smudged. When Derek would sneak bites of the dishes he’d slip into a daze at the _taste_. Finstock took a deep breath and when he untied his apron Derek saw that his fingers trembled. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Derek heard Finstock’s heartbeat quicken as the Special Agent glanced over the silver tree he wheeled out every year, his humble home, and the stack of DVDs by the television. When Finstock met Derek’s heavy gaze he grinned, crooked and wild. 

“I, uh, can’t remember the last time I had people over.” 

Derek rolled his eyes. 

“I come over all the time.” 

Finstock snorted. 

“You don’t count and you know it.” He shook himself out and cleared his throat. He met Derek’s eyes. “Give me a hug.” 

Whenever he asked there was an unspoken _please_ despite Finstock never needing it. Derek happily pulled Finstock close and he savored the way Finstock relaxed in his grip.

“They’re important to you.” Finstock whispered in Derek’s grasp. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

He wouldn’t, Derek knew this like he knew the sun would rise the next day. Derek buried his face in Finstock’s neck and lifted him off the ground effortlessly because it always made Finstock smile with unabashed delight. Derek counted Finstock’s heartbeats. Finstock squeezed the back of Derek’s neck. 

The kitchen timer went off and they both separated and whirled back into action. 

Finstock directed Derek as everything cooled, simmered, and finished. Derek set the long table in the dining room and the doorbell rang just as he laid the last napkin down. Finstock swallowed with a painful _click_. He only looked nervous for a moment before he smiled and went for the door, Derek behind him. Finstock opened the door only to immediately get hugged by Stiles. 

“Merry Christmas!” Stiles sang. “And happy holidays!” 

Stiles wiggled out of Finstock’s arms only to throw himself at Derek, Allison and Chris following his example. 

The feast laid out by Finstock was as delicious as it was decadent. Derek felt oddly warm as delicious flavors burst over his tongue while the rest of his friends complimented Finstock’s recipes. Derek remained quiet as he watched them. 

Sparkling cider sloshed over Stiles’s glass as he regaled them with a story about his travels to Philadelphia. Chris’s shoulders were relaxed as he sipped his second glass of wine. Allison laughed with a bit of whipped cream on her nose-- and suddenly Derek wished Laura could see all of it. The laughter, the food, and the warmth that he never thought he’d have. He wished that she could see that it was possible to have a Pack again.

Later they all sprawled out in the living room as Bruce Willis worked his way through Nakatomi Tower. Stiles’s legs stretched out over Derek’s as he laid his lead in Allison’s lap. Finstock snored next to Derek, his head in danger of falling onto Chris’s shoulder. Allison’s heartbeat was steady, healthy, and whole. Stiles wasn’t as gaunt as he’d been earlier in the year, and his phone chimed with a text that made him smile wide. Derek didn’t have to guess at who it was from. 

Snow fell outside and Derek drifted to sleep knowing he was safe. 

::::

_Endless questions soured on Peter’s tongue and pressed against his teeth. He sat on the floor in his kitchen, his shoes and socks toed off and kicked to the far corner. Memories of kisses in this kitchen surfaced. With every short breath came down the line Peter remembered the feel of Stiles’s smile against his lips, how he’d sometimes break off in a laugh like Peter was wonderful and extraordinary._

_Stiles sucked in a breath but didn’t speak. Peter had tried, he’d had his clothes and entire house cleaned. He was told to forget about Stiles, to pretend he never existed and he’d been doing well. With one phone call all that process unraveled until Peter was on his kitchen floor blinking stinging tears out of his eyes in the middle of the night._

_“I meant,” Peter curled inward, his skin sticky and tight, “are you okay from having to be…” Peter’s claws dug into his thigh, ready to tear into his own flesh at the repulsion from his own memories, how he’d been so lost in pleasure and adoration, while Stiles would have been-- “Intimate with me.”_

_Peter wanted to throw his phone because_ of course it wasn’t okay _how could it ever be okay?_

_“Peter,” Stiles was soft. Peter closed his eyes and twisted even though Stiles couldn’t see him. A snarling, hurt part of Peter wanted Stiles to lie to him, to tell him it had been Stiles’s greatest desire to sleep with Peter. He knew Stiles could spin sugar out of nothing, he could send Peter to sleep with a hypnotic lullaby. “I…”_

_Peter waited for it. For Stiles to tell him something shallow and sweet. And he knew he could keep that paper-thin promise and it would help him sleep at night. He’d erase the number in his phone and he’d go back to work and everything would be normal. Stiles could help him forget everything they ever had together. The nihilist in Peter wanted Stiles to do it, and the softer part of him, the part Peter hadn’t realized he had-- he wanted-- he_ wanted. 

_“You are one of the few people I didn’t hide myself from.”_

::::

Derek led Allison back to her room. Chris watched them lean on each other down the dim hospital corridor. He wondered what Victoria would have said if she saw a werewolf leading their only daughter to her room and what she’d say to Chris having complete trust in such a wolf. 

Chris remained in the hallway. He expected Finstock to follow Derek, but the Special Agent didn’t move from Chris’s side. 

When Chris had first met Stiles, he saw a kid who’d been pushed against the ropes. His eyes had been red rimmed but his body had been tense and ready to run. Even after Chris brought him onto The Kindness of Strangers, Stiles always readied himself for bad news, and any show of kindness was met with brief surprise followed by pleasure. Even now, after years of knowing him, Chris would still catch a moment of surprise when Chris would buy him dinner, help him adjust his coat, or make sure that he’d had enough water. 

Chris knew that people didn’t become starved for kindness for no reason. He glowered at the door. Finstock fidgeted next to him, their shoulders bumping, and then the door opened. 

John Stilinski strode out, every inch of him a cop. Chris had seen thousands like him, _salt of the earth_ , as people liked to say. He immediately lifted his eyes as the door closed behind him and Chris knew he’d been crying. He saw Mr. Stilinski’s eyes move from Chris to Finstock, unable to get a read on either of them. When Chris refused to speak, John reached for Chris’s arm. 

“Who do you think you _are_ , I’m his _father_ \--”

Finstock’s hand shot out and intercepted John’s, his fingers closing around the man’s wrist firmly. Chris watched Finstock’s knuckles bleed white as he _squeezed_. 

“Funny,” Finstock’s lips pulled back to reveal his large teeth in a twisted grin, “I don’t see the family resemblance.” 

Mr. Stilinski yanked his hand back. His Adam’s apple bobbed and Chris felt a writhing dark creature inside him awaken and bare its teeth at the man. He knew the pleasure he felt at John Stilinski’s misery was shallow and short-sighted. John stalked away and Chris heard his breath catch before the elevator arrived. Soon he was gone and it was just Chris and Finstock. 

Finstock whistled. He ran his tongue along his teeth and cracked his neck. 

“What a fucking day.” He dragged his fingers down his face roughly and scratched at his wild hair. When he saw Chris staring he cracked a crooked grin. “You okay?”

Chris Argent didn’t get that question often, maybe not since he was a child. Argents were strong, they survived plagues, war, and all kinds of beasts. Chris had plenty of snide retorts in his back pocket or he could have remained silent like the last few times Finstock had cornered him at one of Crawford’s awful barbecues. Chris, a little drunk on relief, smiled. 

“Would you like to go to dinner sometime?” 

Finstock’s jaw dropped and his cheeks flushed red. Chris laughed for the first time in weeks.

Seasons changed. Civilians were recruited. Chris finally made dinner plans. 

He adjusted his sterling silver cufflinks and gave himself a once-over in the mirror. It had been so long since he’d cared about his appearance in a sense that meant more than the bare minimum. He looked away before he worried too much and left his office.

“--think of it as a game where you mimic the other person.” Stiles stood with Allison as the four recruits watched as Stiles playfully hit her arm. “A short and brief contact is like testing the waters. If it’s returned,” Allison hit Stiles in the same spot, “that means it’s been accepted. And the volley continues.” 

The four recruits ranged from twenty-four to thirty years old. Two came from the FBI pool that Stiles and Allison had narrowed down, and two came from the following leads and hearsay across the country. Allison glanced up and gently tapped Stiles before she slipped away. 

Without batting an eye Stiles continued his lecture. Allison stepped out into the hall. 

“Hey, dad.” Chris kissed her cheek and Allison smiled into it. “How’s it going?” 

“I have some starters for the recruits when you think they’re ready.” He passed Allison a thick folder of files, the usual in-and-out checks that he considered easy. “I’m heading out early for a dinner.”

He wasn’t _nervous_ because that would be childish. Allison quirked her eyebrow but thankfully kept her teasing for later. A sharp whistle made them both turn to Stiles, whose smile was not as forgiving as his daughter’s. 

“Take a good look at our fearless leader. Tell me what you see.” 

Chris resisted the urge to adjust his posture as the four new recruits stared at him critically. Seattle, the oldest recruit and Derek’s top recommendation, bit his tongue between his teeth. He had a slight gap between his front teeth and stark freckles that made his light green eyes stand out. 

“Clearly has a military background with his posture and the callouses on his hand from handling firearms and hand-to-hand combat.” 

The youngest recruit, a civilian out of Philadelphia, rolled her eyes and mouthed, “ _Obvious_ ,” to her civilian peer out of Atlanta. However, it was the next FBI recruit out of Chicago who spoke next. 

“He favors his right side slightly, so he’s learned to be ambidextrous later in life.” 

“Fancy suit and cufflinks,” drawled Atlanta. 

“He’s had a shave. He’s got a little cut,” Philadelphia pointed to her rosy cheek. Chris mirrored her movement and sure enough he felt a scab. Philadelphia grinned. “He’s going on a date.” 

“It’s _dinner_ ,” Chris insisted with what he hoped was an intimidating growl, “not a date.” 

Philadelphia high-fived Atlanta and while Chicago and Seattle snickered. Allison hid a grin behind her hand while Stiles winked with a cheery, “Go and _get it_ , Chris!” 

Even as heat rose up the back of Chris’s neck, he didn’t feel real anger. He squeezed Allison in a half hug before pointing at the recruits.

“No more fooling around, I want you all out on assignments by the end of the week!” 

He knew no one bought his grumpy old man act for a second. Stiles laughed and when he turned Chris saw that he’d changed out the teal thread he’d used to patch up Peter’s jacket. Red stitches held the holes shut as Stiles slung his arms around Philadelphia and Chicago. 

Chris left with a final look. Everything was back on track, and he had a da-- dinner to attend. 

::::

_Stiles pressed his fingers against his eyelids until the white spots of pain grew unbearable. He took away the pressure and his lips fell open._

_“When I tried every trick I had, you didn’t buy it. When I was too tired to be careful, that was the only time I had you-- you wanted_ me.” 

_No one had ever wanted Stiles for himself. The winds blew through Beacon Hills and Stiles couldn’t wait to leave the flowery false paradise._

_He knew he should lie. The more contact he had with Peter the worse off he’d be. He knew if Chris could see what he was doing he’d be furious, or worse, disappointed._

_“Peter…”_

_With all anguish stripped from his voice, Stiles let three words he never thought he’d say fall from his lips._

::::

Icy rain fell down in razor sharp sheets that cut through Rhoda Moss’s winter jacket as she raced down Broad Street to get to Megabus terminal outside of thirtieth street station. Muddy water splashed up around her boots and she arrived just in time as the bus was boarding. Her lungs burned and she climbed on, clutching her backpack tightly. 

She sat three rows from the back so she could look out of the window as she tried to dry off. October storms were the worst in Philadelphia, cold with strong winds that cut right to the bone. Her teeth chattered and she leaned her head back just as a deep voice caught her attention. 

“Excuse me,” a young man with stubble peered at her from behind thick glasses that Clark Kent would have thought to be too much, “may I sit here?” 

“Sure.” 

He smiled, his cheeks stung red from the cold. He shucked off his overcoat and sat down. He held his briefcase between his ankles as he rubbed his hands together and blew on them. 

“Thanks.” 

Rhoda nodded, remembering to smile. She turned to watch the rain hit the windows outside as the bus rumbled into movement. Her companion sighed loudly and covered his face with his hands. Rhoda knew how he felt. 

Most of the passengers were content to shiver and sleep. Rhoda usually liked to speak to whoever sat next to her if they were open to it, but even she had to concede that the cold was too much. She let her head hit the window. She drifted on the outskirts of consciousness, letting her muscles relax inch by inch as the bus drove through the wet, unending grey towards New York City. 

It was her birthday and Rhoda would rather be working. She was disappointed when her bosses allowed her to have the time off and so here she was, shivering on a bus. Rhoda Moss, like most people her age, worked retail. Unlike most people her age, Rhoda took a perverse pleasure in selling. Whether it be at the pet or beauty store where she balanced out her hours, she chased sales like a junkie. 

Her parents didn’t understand… she knew it would be a topic of conversation that night, after the show that Rhoda expressed no interest in, after the dinner at a restaurant that would never have food good enough for her mother-- the conversation would always return to, “you just don’t have enough _motivation_ , Rhoda.” 

She tried explaining it once. She didn’t believe in the companies she worked for, but she did believe in the ability to manipulate a person into liking her, feeding them the experience of _Rhoda Moss_ , a temporary best friend and expert. Her bosses slapped her on the back and she’d smile at group huddles, but she was being selfish. She liked to experiment with what she could do, challenging herself with tougher customers-- and she remembered how she had to stop because her mother had this _look_ on her face… 

Rhoda didn’t talk much in her parent’s presence. 

Her phone buzzed and pulled her from her adrift state. She quickly accepted the call from her father and kept her voice down. 

“Dad?” 

_“How far are you?”_

“I…” Rhoda squinted at the front of the bus. “I don’t know, dad, there’s a lot of traffic.” 

_“If you’re late, if you miss the show that we bought tickets for--”_

The thing about sales was that every customer was a stranger. Rhoda could be anyone, she had a thousand backgrounds she pulled from, and they would believe her. She could be the saint that helped them in a crisis to a reformed goth with a vocal fry who doesn't bullshit around. _That_ was the true appeal of sales. That was the sentiment that made her mother recoil. 

No one could hide from their parents. No amount of fake smiles could convince them, no decorative quirks and sing-song phrases would throw them off the trail. Rhoda bit her lip, fighting tears because sometimes, in the deep, cold dark, she wished her parents could become strangers and see her as she _wished_ to be seen. 

“If I’m late just see it without me. I can make it to dinner, worst case scenario.” 

The pause on the other line warned of impending disaster. A boiling rage gathered, as if Rhoda had conjured the storm and traffic to spite them. She hung up, and wished for the thirtieth time that she was back on the sales floor. She spared a glance at the Clark-Kent-Wannabe and saw that he was asleep, head tilted back with his mouth open. 

She wiped her eyes and figured he had the right idea. 

Her eyes drifted shut and this time Rhoda knew she could let the cold drag her under into a peaceful sleep before a depressing storm. The bus lurched to a sudden stop just as her breathing evened out. Rhoda didn’t have time to open her eyes when a strong arm stopped her from busting her face against the window. Rhoda sucked in a breath, her eyes wide, and Clark-Kent-Wannabe’s glasses slid down his nose. 

“Are you okay?” 

He pulled his arm back slowly, clumsily adjusting his glasses. Rhoda nodded, still a little shaken. 

“Yeah.” She laughed. “Well, that’s one way to wake up.” She saw him sneak glances at her and his glasses still had water droplets on them. She held out her hand. “I’m Rhoda.” 

The young man smiled, like they shared a secret despite having just met. Her phone buzzed, her parents were going to see the show without her. They signed the text with an ominous _Happy Birthday_. Rhoda could hardly feel her fingers as the man’s hand closed around hers, his brown eyes bright behind his glasses. 

“Stiles.” He was going to invite her to a diner nearby the bus terminal once he learned she needed to kill two hours. He’d get curly fries and treat her to a milkshake when he learned it was her birthday. While the taste of strawberries and cream lingered on Rhoda’s tongue, he’d make her a job offer that is truly unreal. But at that moment, his hand still holding hers, Stiles spoke with such warmth that Rhoda’s shivering stopped. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

To this day it was still Rhoda’s favorite birthday. 

She made sure to wear plenty of sunscreen while she was in Los Angeles. Sunburns were the first sign of a tourist. She wore a cozy sweater and jeans with Atlanta’s denim jacket. Stiles’s Skype call helped a little, but she was still nervous. _This isn’t an official assignment from Chris,_ Stiles reminded her, _it’s just a favor for me. Observe. And if you can, pass along the message._

Rhoda worried her bottom lip, making sure not to walk too fast across the terminal tiles. A few people ambled past, drinking stale coffee and staring at their phones. She did the same, rereading Stiles’s email. Usually Rhoda picked her own background for the assignments given, Mr. Argent wanted to see if they had good judgement and improvisational skills if something went wrong. 

This time Stiles had given her precise directions, clothes to wear, and more importantly, a message to convey. Whatever this was-- it was unlike anything Rhoda had done for The Kindness of Strangers before. Rhoda felt an addicting chill race down her spine. She wasn’t there to gather information on whether or not her mark was ethical, deserving of for a certain promotion, or loyal to a company. 

_Just… tell me how he looks._

She adjusted her glasses with fake lenses and tugged a few strands of hair out of her messy bun. She straightened her shoulders and, with a charmingly sleepy smile, she made her way to Gate 74B. 

::::

_Peter used to think that nothing could surprise him, that nothing would hurt him after what Kate did to his entire Pack. He thought that her death would wash away any desires, because what else could Peter possibly want? He foolishly believed that nothing else could bring him pain._

_“I love you.”_

_He should have been angry, enraged. He should have snarled and snapped, he should have felt a flood of loathing overtake him. His first thought was,_ “how dare he” _followed by a more anguished_ , “how could he?” _Peter’s throat clicked and he couldn’t say any of the things he should. His claws were out and his shoulders shook with the weight of it._

_“Stiles,” Peter curled until his forehead hit the floor, his stomach jumping under his claws. “I don’t… I don’t know who you are.”_

::::

“Are you _sure_ about this?” Lydia zipped up Peter’s bag, her perfectly plucked brows furrowed with worry. Peter smiled, cocky and endlessly glad that she hadn’t seen him on the floor of his kitchen over a year ago, emotionally wrecked. “I could call off, get a ticket with you--”

Peter drew her in for a hug, cutting her off with his lips pressed to the top of her head. Lydia clung to his new leather jacket, her fingers making the material creak. 

“I need to do this. Worst case, I get closure and I’m on the first flight back out here before I get frostbite.” 

Lydia pulled back, her fingers sliding down his arms. 

“And the best case scenario?” 

Peter mulled over her words. He’d tried not to think about Stiles’s quiet, _“What if you could get to know me,”_ over the past year. He walked to the bakery the night before his flight and basked in the smell of sugar and coconut oil. It was a half-hour before closing on a weeknight, so the bakery was empty except for the Bakery Betas. They all looked up and grinned. 

Erica pushed the dividing door open and soon Peter’s arms were full of three Beta wolves. He smiled, enjoying the weight of them in his arms. 

“You’re out late.” 

Erica smiled with a quirked eyebrow. 

“I’m flying out tomorrow to visit an old friend in DC. I was hoping for something that could survive the five hour flight.” 

He watched, fascinated and perhaps a bit heartbroken, as the Bakery Betas’ smiles fell into pure expressions of awe.Their hearts raced and the air froze in their lungs. Boyd moved first, vaulting over the counter while Isaac scrambled back to the divide. Erica spun in a circle, her hands darting out to a cup full of markers. Isaac sprinted with large cards that had their menu printed on one side and blank backs. 

They huddled around the counter, hunched over their letters. Boyd sealed them in three plastic ziplock bags and slid them among a dozen chocolate-chip cookies. 

When Peter tried to pay, they pushed his hand back and all three of them hugged him, but this time tight enough to push the air from his lungs. 

“When you see him, give him this from us.”

Peter’s throat was tight so he nodded. 

The next morning he walked along the tiles and usually he enjoyed taking his time in airports. His heart thudded too loudly in his chest, sweat gathered on the back of his neck, and the cookies with notes from the Betas weighed heavily in his carry-on. 

He drifted to Gate 74B in a haze of anticipation, dread, and hope.

The plane a two-seat rows on either side and Peter always took the aisle for easy departure. He slid his carry-on off his shoulder and as he was lifting it up into the overhead compartment a young woman yawned her way to him. 

“Hi.” She smiled sheepishly, “I’m in the window seat.” She had a worn backpack with odd patches sewn on. She kept it with her, holding it between her legs as she settled into the seat. She was tired, like most of the passengers, and when Peter settled in and she shifted in her seat. “If you need more room, just tell me.” 

Her voice was light and her expression was open to conversation. Normally Peter would have loved the distraction, but he turned away and let their silence grow. She got comfortable and though her heartbeat quickened during takeoff, she quickly nodded off. Peter hadn’t planned on following her example, but the next thing he knew a comically static announcement woke him up.

He jerked awake, hating the sluggish feeling that made his teeth fuzzy and slick. He glanced over to see that Window Seat was working diligently on a tablet, her glasses sliding down her nose. 

She worried her lip between her teeth and her cozy sweater had sleeves that were just a tad too long and kept tripping up her fingers. Peter cleared his throat, feeling a bit guilty at not taking the earlier offered conversation. 

“Did I miss anything?” 

The young woman glanced at him.

“Just some turbulence.We’ll be touching down in an hour or so.” Peter exhaled, half with relief and half with gnawing anticipation. Window Seat made a quiet sound and she gently touched his elbow. “I grabbed this for you when the stewardess came by.” 

She pressed a small bottle of water into his palm. It was still cool to the touch. Peter swallowed, suddenly realizing how thirsty anxious sleep had made him. He twisted off the cap and met her eyes through her thick lenses. 

“Thanks.” 

She shrugged, her freckled shoulder peeking out from her sweater. 

“No problem.” 

She lingered, not immediately turning back to her tablet, and Peter didn’t let the silence grow this time around. 

“So, do you live in Los Angeles or DC?” 

Window Seat bloomed, her smile much more bright and awake she’d seemed moments ago. 

“I live in Los Angeles. You?”

“Same.” She held out her fist and Peter felt his chest catch on a laugh that almost bubbled free from his lips. He bumped his fist against hers. “Visiting family?” 

“No. Well--” She paused, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m visiting my boyfriend.” Peter thought he’d kept his surprised reaction reigned in, but she must have caught a glance because her smile was crooked. “I know, it’s long distance but it works for us.” 

Curiosity prickled along Peter’s skin as he took a long sip of his water.

“Feel free to ignore the question if it offends you,” Peter lingered on the words as she held his gaze, her shoulders not tensing or falling, “but how do you make it work?” 

Window Seat blinked and she let out a breath. She was young, sure, but Peter saw the determination lining the corner of her lips as she let her eyes slide away from his, looking back on memories. 

“Our careers are important to us. He works in the government with high clearance so DC is important for him just like Los Angeles is to me.” Window Seat paused and when she smiled next it was wistful, the kind of smile that powered through a harrowing day. “He loves me. I love him.” Her eyes were like unrestrained electricity when she met his. “He told me it wouldn’t be easy, that people would hold their standards up to us, but he said,” and her smile slanted and Peter drew back because he’d seen her movements before, how she held her head up high with a crooked grin and a wink, “I won’t be able to tell you everything, but I promise I won’t lie to you. We’ll operate outside of people’s expectations.” 

They began their descent. The plane rattled and Window Seat squeezed her eyes shut. That was when he realized that she was wearing a loose, light blue sweater, jeans, thick glasses, and Doc Martens. She wore very limited makeup where the ignorant observer would mistake her for wearing no makeup. _The perfect approachable stranger._

He let her go first and she helped him steady his carry-on when he pulled it free from the overhead compartment. 

“So,” she turned a bit awkwardly to face him as people shuffled off the plane, “what brings you to DC?” 

_I think you know_ , Peter didn’t dare say. She matched his pace when they got off, not touching him, not crowding him, and not immediately darting off. Peter adjusted his bag. 

“Oh,” the word caught on his throat. “Just seeing an old friend.” He heard her heartbeat increase though her face didn’t betray it. Maybe she was piecing it together, as Peter had to piece his own memories back together after that long summer phone call. He saw her eyes track how his hands tightened their grip on his bag, how the his breath came a hint too short. “It’s a little nerve-wracking, isn’t it? After not seeing someone or a long time?” 

Her eyelashes fluttered and she glanced away, briefly, but long enough for Peter to step on his own shoelace quickly. 

“Yeah.” She turned back to him with a ghostly smile. “I know what you mean.” Peter’s shoelace unraveled as she held out her hand. “It was nice meeting you. I’m Rhoda.” 

Peter clasped her hand firmly. 

“Peter.” He stopped. “Ah, looks like I need to tie my shoe,” Peter said with false mourning, “but have a lovely time with your boyfriend.” 

He dropped to his knees and heard Rhoda’s chirp, “you too, Peter,” before she picked up the pace. Peter laced his shoes and followed her at a safe distance. He saw her take out her phone, typing and easily weaving through the hoard of passengers. As he kept walking the icy East Coast temperatures made him jam his hands into his pockets, his breath fogging in front of him as he went down the escalator to baggage claim. 

The moment his foot touched the tile he heard a squeal. Rhoda, a good thirty feet away, rushed forward into the arms of a broad-shouldered young man with dark skin and a hearty laugh. Peter’s pace faltered as he passed a large pillar by the rotator. Rhoda’s companion spun her around, and before Peter could check to see if she caught his gaze-- a flash of red at the corner of his eye made him come to a full stop. 

An achingly familiar scent washed over him, intoxicating and warm. Peter forgot all about Rhoda in that moment as he turned, long stretches of winter-filled windows at his back. His breath curled in foggy bursts around his lips and Stiles leaned against the pillar with a crooked smile. 

His cheeks were bitten pink by the cold and he had a bright red scarf tucked into Peter’s old jacket. Stiles’s had a few thin laugh-lines at the corner of his eyes and lips. His gloved hands were clasped in front of him and he straightened when Peter fully faced him. 

The world turned around them and the memory of Stiles’s laughter bubbled across Peter’s tongue. 

Peter Hale, the lone Hale Alpha, smiled. 

 

…… The End….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my GOD IT'S THE END. 
> 
> This has been an emotional journey. I'm sorry it's taken so long to finish this chapter. It's about twice as long as the usual ones, but I also had to write for an exchange and my job got hectic (and still is hectic). 
> 
> Thank you ALL for reading, please let me know how it feels, now that it's over and we're left standing in the snow holding our breaths. It made me cry, it made me laugh, and now it's over. I'll probably be writing a long post about how this entire idea came about and my influences at my tumblr: mia6363.tumblr.com 
> 
> Feel free to give a follow! 
> 
> Also, thanks again. To the readers. And please, let me know how you liked the ending. Did you love it? Hate it? I would love to hear it all!


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